Читать книгу His Convenient Marchioness - Elizabeth Rolls - Страница 11
ОглавлениеDisappointment and rage lashed at Emma over the next two days. Disappointment that Huntercombe’s apparently disinterested kindliness towards the children had been anything but disinterested and rage that he had used them in his attempt to get close to her.
Harry and Georgie could talk of little but Lord Huntercombe and Fergus. Emma even overheard Harry tell his sister what a jolly good idea she’d had with the handkerchief. ‘Because no matter what Mama says, I’m sure he’ll bring it back!’
Georgie, openly smug about the predicted success of her scheme, asked Emma, ever so casually, just how long it took to launder a handkerchief. ‘In a big house, Mama.’
It might have been funny had Emma not been so angry. And if she were honest, angry with herself for feeling even for an instant that betraying flicker of interest. Had she accidentally encouraged him? Did she have to be rude to every gentleman who spoke to her to avoid this sort of thing? And somewhere in all that there was hurt. Why she had thought Huntercombe would be different, she had no idea. After eleven years she knew how society viewed her.
She did not have the heart to disabuse the children of their conviction that Huntercombe would call. How could she, without giving an explanation as to why she was so sure he would not? Six and ten was far too young for them to realise how gentlemen viewed their mother. Instead she took advantage of any dry weather to get them out for walks as much as possible, trying everything she could think of to keep them busy and distracted.
And yet walks inevitably brought on chatter of how fast Fergus could run, how he twisted in mid-air to catch the ball and when they might see him again.
So the knock on the door on the third morning was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. Nor did Emma appreciate the involuntary leap of her own pulse. Harry and Georgie, just sat down for their morning lessons, looked up, eyes bright.
‘It might be him, Mama!’
Emma gave Georgie a quelling look. ‘Him? The cat’s father?’
‘Fergus!’
She changed her snort of laughter into a cough. The Marquess of Huntercombe, outranked by his own dog. Bessie’s footsteps hurried down the short hallway and the door creaked open. A velvet-dark voice spoke, the tone questioning, and Emma’s pulse skittered. Anger, she assured herself. Unfortunately it didn’t feel like anger, but that did not change how she was going to deal with this.
‘Yes, yer honour. What? Right. I’ll ask her then.’
‘Mama!’ Georgie and Harry jigged in their seats.
‘Stay where you are.’ She held them in place with a raised hand. ‘It might be a complete stranger.’
More hurried steps and Bessie opened the door, face pink. ‘It’s a lordship, mum! Do I let him in?’
Despite her anger, Emma suppressed another laugh. The Most Noble Marquess of Huntercombe left kicking his heels on the doorstep...
‘It is him!’ Harry and Georgie let out a unison shriek of delight, surged from their seats and stampeded past Bessie and into the hall.
‘Sir! Good morning!’
‘Look! It’s Fergus!’
Bessie held out a visiting card. ‘Said ’is name was Huntercombe, mum. Not Fergus.’
‘The dog,’ Emma said. Damn his eyes! Must he make it so difficult? But it was not only Huntercombe who was making it difficult. She had repelled other men with ease. It was her own unruly attraction to him that was difficult. The others had been annoying. Huntercombe’s approach infuriated her.
Huntercombe’s deep, quiet voice returned the children’s greetings.
‘Come in, sir!’
His lordship’s response to Harry’s invitation was dismissed by Georgie. ‘Of course she won’t. It’s this way.’
A moment later his broad shoulders filled the doorway. ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Emma.’ A tinge of colour stained his cheekbones. ‘I did ask your servant if you were at home, but—’
‘We’re nearly always at home,’ Georgie said. ‘Except when we aren’t.’
Huntercombe’s eyes crinkled. ‘I see. The thing is, Miss Georgie, a gentleman should always give a lady the chance to send him to the right-a-bout if she does not wish to see him.’
The smile in the grey eyes as he looked at Georgie was completely disarming. Emma had to remind herself that he was married, that he had no business calling on her alone, disarming her—even unintentionally—or causing her pulse to skip with that smile that stayed in his eyes and warmed her from the inside out. And he was years older than she was, although that didn’t seem to matter as much as it had when she was twenty. To Emma, at twenty, the greying hair on Sir Augustus Bolt, the man her father had decreed she was to marry, had horrified her. But now, curse it, on Huntercombe the greying dark hair—especially those silvery patches, just there at the temples—was simply gorgeous. And unlike Sir Augustus, who had run sadly to seed by forty-nine along with a pronounced stoop to his shoulders, Huntercombe was still straight, broad-shouldered and looked as though he kept himself fit.
She forced her mind to function. What mattered, she reminded herself, was that he was married and she had two children to protect. Very well. He’d called. So she’d take his advice and send him to the right-a-bout. And since there was no way she could be even remotely private with someone in a house this size—
‘As it happens, sir, we are about to go for a walk,’ she said. ‘Would you care to join us?’
Harry stared at her. ‘You said we had to do our lessons.’
Emma wondered why children always contradicted you like that. ‘I’ve changed my mind. The sun is out now, but I wouldn’t care to wager upon it staying that way.’
‘But, Mama,’ Georgie looked up from patting Fergus, eyes wide, ‘When Harry said that at breakfast, you said—’
‘Don’t you want to come for a walk?’ Huntercombe asked mildly.
‘Of course we do,’ Harry said.
Huntercombe nodded. ‘Then stop reminding your mother about lessons. Her conscience may get the better of her.’
Emma stifled another laugh, wishing his dry sense of humour wasn’t so wickedly appealing.
Harry grinned. ‘Yes, sir. Come on, Georgie. We’ll fetch our things.’
* * *
He’d meant to return the handkerchief, assure Lady Emma that she had been thoroughly mistaken and leave. But now he was going for a walk with the dreadful creature. Although he had to admit explaining Lady Emma’s mistake in that tiny house with two children present might have been awkward.
Hunt noted that Emma again kept the conversation in the realm of polite generalities as they waited for the children. Nor by so much as a flicker did her demeanour suggest that she had received him in anything less than the most elegant drawing room.
Whatever he had expected of her home, Hunt realised, it had not been the reality of this shabby-genteel, whitewashed parlour. It was spotlessly clean and he wondered if she did the dusting herself. The floorboards—no carpet, just scrubbed, bare boards—were swept. The furniture, what there was of it, was polished to a gleam and books crammed a battered set of shelves beside the window. An elderly lamp stood on the table and a plain wooden clock ticked on the shelf over the clean and empty grate. The chill in the room suggested that the fire was lit only in the evenings.
Emma Lacy, he realised, lived on the edge of very real poverty and that puzzled him. Surely she had something to live on? Unless Lacy had muddled their money away. That was quite possible. Anyone brought up as Lacy and Emma had been would struggle to manage on much less. The younger sons of dukes, having been raised to luxury, then left with relatively little, were notoriously expensive and debt-ridden. A very pertinent reason why fathers preferred not to marry their daughters to them.
She invited him to sit down and chatted about the renewed war with France. Not for long though. Harry and Georgie appeared in their outdoor things very quickly.
‘We brought yours, too, Mama.’ Harry had a brown pelisse over one shoulder and Georgie clutched a bonnet and gloves.
‘Thank you.’ Emma smiled at them. ‘That was very thoughtful of you.’
‘We wanted to have lots of time to throw the ball for Fergus,’ Harry explained.
‘Ah. Silly me.’ Emma’s eyes danced and something inside Hunt warmed as he saw again the open affection in her face. Whatever else this house might lack it was not deficient in love. And the thought crept up on him: this was not a woman who would leave her children to marry again.
‘That reminds me—’ He drew Georgie’s laundered handkerchief—God knew what his valet had thought when handed it with a request for an immediate wash—from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Thank you. I’ve brought an extra one of my own today.’
‘Oh.’ Georgie looked crestfallen as she tucked the scrap of cambric into her sleeve. ‘I wouldn’t have minded lending you another.’
Emma cleared her throat. ‘Georgie, Lord Huntercombe cannot keep visiting merely to return your belongings.’
Shards of ice edged her voice, but this was not the moment to launch into explanations. Time enough for that when the children were out of earshot. ‘Shall we go?’ he suggested.
* * *
The children raced ahead with Fergus, but obeyed Emma’s injunction not to get too far in front. A biting wind whipped around them, bringing bright colour to her pale cheeks. She had ignored his offered arm, tucking her gloved hands into a threadbare velvet muff. He wondered just how old it was, if she had owned it before her elopement.
‘You should not have come,’ she said.
Hunt raised his brows at the cool, not to say imperious, tone. She had dropped the veneer of affability like a brick. ‘No? Why not, ma’am?’
Anger flashed in her eyes. ‘I told you the other day that I am not interested. And I resent you using my children to force my compliance this morning!’
He raised his brows. ‘I am sorry to contradict you, ma’am, but I had no intention of going for a walk. You informed me that you were going for a walk and invited me to join you. However, since you have raised the issue, let us be very clear on one thing; I am not looking for a mistress!’
She stopped dead and he halted obligingly. Amused, he saw that her eyes were blank; he’d managed to shock her. ‘That is what you thought, is it not?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded strangled, as if she were having trouble getting any sound out at all. ‘But, still, even if that is true—your wife, what will she think if anyone sees us together?’
He froze. ‘My wife?’
She glared at him. ‘Yes. I may have been out of society for a long time, sir, but I remember Lady Huntercombe perfectly well.’
‘Do you?’ How did this equate with the dreadful creature Letty assumed had accosted him boldly in Hatchard’s? A woman furious with him because she believed he was about to make improper advances to her and doubly furious because she remembered his wife?
‘Yes. I liked her. She was kind.’
He couldn’t help smiling at her. ‘She was, wasn’t she?’
Emma stopped, stared up at him. ‘Was?’
He nodded curtly. ‘I have been a widower for some years, Lady Emma.’
‘Oh. I’m... I’m very sorry, sir.’
He felt himself stiffen. ‘No need. A misunderstanding. As you said, you have been out of society. You weren’t to know.’
‘I meant,’ some of the astringency returned, ‘that I am sorry for your loss. She was lovely.’
It was a very long time since anyone had offered their condolences. Of course, it had been a long time since Anne and the children died.
‘Thank you.’ He let out a breath. Eleven years gone and he was thinking about marrying Amelia Trumble. Maybe. If he could screw his good sense to the sticking place.
‘Mama! Watch this!’
They turned to watch Harry hurl the ball far and high. Fergus raced underneath, leaping with a lithe twist to take the catch in mid-air.
‘See, Mama! Just like we said!’
Fergus came racing back, spat the ball out at Harry’s feet.
Emma turned back to him, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry I was so rude. But I’m not going to be sorry that I accidentally forced you to come for a walk. This is such a treat for them.’
A treat. Taking a dog for a walk and throwing a ball. And she had been about to give them their morning lessons when he arrived. Amelia had a child. A young boy who would remain in his grandfather’s custody if his mother remarried, doubtless with a nanny and tutors, but still...without his mother. He hadn’t really thought about it. Just that it was helpful to know she was fertile... He hadn’t thought about the child, or children. Was it right for a woman to be forced to abandon her children? Would Trumble allow the child to spend time with them if he did marry Amelia? She is not unduly sentimental. Wouldn’t Amelia want the child with her?
‘Tell me, Lady Emma, if you ever remarried, would you consent to leave your children behind?’
‘What?’
What insanity had prompted him to ask that? ‘An academic question.’ There. That was better—a calm, logical approach. ‘You see, I am considering marriage and I wish to know what is reasonable to expect of a woman. Should she be expected to leave her children if she remarries? If, say, her father-in-law is their legal guardian?’
Those dancing blue eyes chilled. ‘No. But the law doesn’t agree with me. Nor would most men.’ Her mouth flattened. ‘You, for example, seemed to assume that Keswick must be my children’s guardian. He is not.’
Hunt frowned. ‘He is not their legal guardian?’
‘No. I am. Keswick has nothing to do with them.’
He tried to imagine Amelia, virtuously conventional, spurning her father-in-law’s authority at all, let alone so brazenly. He ought to be shocked that Lady Emma had done so. Instead, he was shocked that he wasn’t shocked.
‘So a gentleman offering you marriage would have to take the children?’
‘A very academic question, my lord, but yes. And I would retain guardianship.’
An iceberg would sound warmer. Yet somehow all his calm, logical reasons for considering Amelia were sliding into ruin. And in their place...
No. Impossible. Emma Lacy was not at all the sort of bride he ought to consider. And if he were to consider her he would need to know her a great deal better. But how could he further their acquaintance without her believing that he was, after all, pursuing her with less than honourable intent?
He took a very deep, careful breath. ‘I should make it absolutely clear, ma’am that I am not, at this moment, offering you marriage.’
‘I never imagined that you—’ She stared. ‘“At this moment?”’
‘However, I must marry again and you fit my...requirements.’
He heard the sharp intake of breath and braced.
‘Requirements?’
He was not fool enough to be lulled by those dulcet tones.
‘A clumsy word, Lady Emma, but honest. I am too old—’ and too emptied out ʻ—to be tumbling into love, so I am not looking for a giddy young girl. I require a woman of maturity, but still young enough to bear children.’
There. That was perfectly logical and rational. He’d touched on all the relevant points.
‘I see. You want a proven breeder, not an untried filly.’
His mouth opened. He knew that. Unfortunately nothing came out.
‘Speechless, my lord?’
He laughed. He simply couldn’t help it as that warlike glint in her eyes started to dance again. Eventually he stopped laughing. ‘Touché, ma’am. At this point I should probably do better if I cut my own tongue out.’
‘Yes.’ She gave him a puzzled glance. ‘So, you wish to remarry—’
‘Yes.’
‘And for some reason you think I might do.’
He winced. ‘I beg your pardon if I gave the impression that it was a matter of you might do. I was trying to be sensible, not insulting. But, yes, you do, er—’
‘Fit your requirements.’
The long-forgotten burning sensation informed Hunt that he had actually blushed. ‘Something like that.’ Why did the ground simply not open up and swallow him?
‘And along with your requirements are you also going to ask for references?’ Her chin was up. ‘Because I am afraid I cannot offer any. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
He looked at her. Really looked at her. The brief hint of laughter was gone again. In its place was...bitterness? No, not that. Resignation. As if she expected a rejection. Letty’s words burned into him: ‘Dersingham cast her off regardless, of course. And naturally the Keswicks do not recognise her.’
‘If you will forgive the impertinence, Emma, I think your children are your references.’
She stared at him. ‘Oh.’ Just that. Oh. And that lovely, soft mouth trembled into a smile that shook him to his very foundations. Was he insane? Hadn’t Letty warned him? He wanted a wife who would not turn his life inside out. Now it would serve him right if he found himself fronting the altar with London’s most notorious widow! Only...could she really have done anything truly scandalous? He was finding it harder and harder to believe...
* * *
Emma swallowed. Your children are your references. Just words. Probably meaningless ones. Yet she was melting like a puddle! He had not offered for her. She had to remember that. ‘Then this is in the nature of a...courtship.’
He frowned. ‘I suppose so. In a way. I—that is we—would need to know each other better. If I were to offer for you, I would be offering a marriage of convenience. I need an heir. In return, Harry and Georgie would be provided for and you would have a generous settlement and jointure. However, I have not done so.’
She flinched. His voice was cool, unemotional, his eyes shuttered. Totally at odds with the man who had enchanted Harry and Georgie, and kept his dog’s revolting cricket ball in his pocket. The man who had said the children were her references.
His mouth tightened. ‘I did not wish you to think my intentions were dishonourable.’
‘No. I quite understand that—’ Children... I require an heir... ‘Sir, you say you need an heir, but I thought—’
‘Smallpox.’ He said it in a very distant voice. ‘My wife and all three of our children. Then my half-brother died last year.’
Sometimes distance was all that could protect you from pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said simply.
For a moment he was silent. Then, ‘It was a long time ago. But you see why I must marry again.’
She did. It was exactly the sort of marriage her father had arranged eleven years ago, and that she had fled from. Or was it? Was Huntercombe really offering what Augustus Bolt had offered? She didn’t think so and now was not the time to discuss that. But Huntercombe was a very different man from Sir Augustus. Bolt had been arrogant, condescending, seeing her only as a well-bred, hopefully fertile, vessel for his political ambitions...and Dersingham had approved Bolt as exactly the man to curb a headstrong girl... That brought her back to reality with a jolt. Did Huntercombe know the whole story?
She took a deep breath. ‘Are you aware that I was betrothed to Sir Augustus Bolt?’
Huntercombe frowned. ‘I knew there had been another betrothal. It was to Bolt? I dare say Dersingham wanted the match.’
She nodded. ‘I might have agreed in the end, but I had met Peter, you see, and—’
‘You fell in love.’
Emma heard the guarded tone. She could imagine what he’d heard and she doubted the truth would be any more acceptable to him, even if he believed it.
‘The wedding with Sir Augustus was set for my twenty-first birthday. But when Dersingham delivered me to the altar I refused my vows and walked out of St George’s.’
There. It was out. And judging by his stunned expression he hadn’t known. In a moment, when he had recovered from the shock, he would take his leave politely and she’d never see him again. No well-bred young lady jilted a man at all, let alone literally walking out on him at the altar straight into the arms of another man. Only now, when she had burned all her ships and bridges, did she know exactly how much she had wanted this chance. How much she had wanted someone to understand. Not forgive. She had never considered her marriage to require forgiveness.
* * *
Hunt could only stare at the woman before him, her chin up, defiant. He tried, and failed, to imagine any other young lady he had ever known doing something so utterly scandalous. Letty hadn’t exaggerated at all. For once the gossip had been literal truth.
Although... Gus Bolt? The man must have been nearly fifty at the time. Exactly the sort of marriage Letty and Caro had assumed he would make. If the idea had horrified him, how must it have looked to a girl of twenty-one?
He stuck to practicalities. ‘Was Lacy waiting outside the church?’
She flushed. ‘In a way. We hadn’t arranged it, although my parents thought we had. He had no idea what I was going to do. He just wanted to see me.’ Her eyes became distant, remembering. ‘I didn’t know I was going to do it until I walked out. And, well, there he was. We didn’t stop to think. He took me to his great-aunt, Lady Bartle. She loathed Keswick and I stayed with her while the banns were called.’ She gave him a very direct look. ‘No one ever remembers that, or that Peter went to my father, asked permission to marry me and was refused. According to most of the stories Peter and I lived openly in sin until he deigned to make an honest woman of me.’
Hunt was silent. She had handed him what any sane man would consider sufficient cause for withdrawing. She was not at all an eligible bride for the Marquess of Huntercombe.
But what about Hunt? Would she be a comfortable wife for him?
A little voice crept into his head... What would you have done if Anne’s father had ordered her to marry someone else all those years ago? What, more to the point, would Anne have done?
Peter Lacy had not been a bad match. Except for the fact that Dersingham and Keswick hated each other. Some quarrel decades ago and neither could let it go.
Emma’s voice dragged him back to the present. ‘I have shocked you, sir, but I thought it better that you knew the truth.’
Hunt took a deep breath. Headstrong, managing and distressingly independent she might be, but Emma’s honesty was bone-deep. She had told him in the full expectation that he would walk away without a backward glance. She would not even blame him. ‘Do you mind dogs in the house?’ he asked.
She blinked. ‘No, but what does that—’
‘Excellent.’ There was really nothing to say about her scandalous marriage. It was not his place to approve or disapprove. After all, it was in the past and if it meant she did not wish to give her heart again...well, he wasn’t offering his own heart. Just his hand in marriage.
Now she was staring, those deep blue eyes slightly suspicious. ‘I just told you I’m a walking scandal and you’re worried about dogs in the house?’
He ought to be scandalised at what she’d done. Such behaviour argued that she was ungovernable. He knew that. And, yes, it would definitely cause a stir if he married her. But somehow that didn’t worry him. Emma Lacy was the sort who stuck to her word. She hadn’t tried to sugar-coat what she’d done, let alone hide it. She’d thrown it in his face before he could commit himself in any way. And if she had married Gus Bolt she’d still be married to him and he’d be dodging Amelia Trumble. Or worse.
‘Were you happy with Lacy?’ he asked at last and caught his breath.
A tender smile softened the stubborn set of her mouth.
‘Oh, yes. Although what that has to say to—’
‘Good.’ He possessed himself of her hand and tucked it safely into the crook of his elbow as they started walking again. It felt right there. Completely right. This felt right. Logical. As long as he didn’t imagine her one day smiling that way at the thought of him. ‘I don’t think you would have enjoyed marriage to Gus. God knows I wouldn’t.’ Her jaw dropped. Now he thought about it, it would be as bad as being married to Amelia. ‘The man’s a dead bore,’ he went on. ‘You’ll need time to consider, but while you do so you may as well know exactly what I am—what I would be—offering.’
* * *
She hadn’t said no outright. Hunt told himself that as he walked them home in the lengthening shadows. A light drizzle had started, nothing very much, but no one wanted the children to take a chill.
She hadn’t said no. Instead she had listened to his suggested settlement for herself and the children, and agreed to what he asked; that he be allowed to call on her while they considered. Walk with them, get to know her and the children. She had very firmly stipulated no gifts of any sort, whatsoever. Reluctantly she had agreed that he might buy the children a few sweets. He understood that; she did not wish to build hope in the children, only to crush it if either of them did not, in the end, want the marriage. He suspected that she fully expected him to step back.
So he escorted them home and hoped. This could work. There was no reason it would not. He was attracted to her; more, he liked her. He liked the children. She was of his world, familiar with it, if temporarily out of place. She had not leapt at the chance of marriage. Even now she employed no arts to attract. If anything she was rather quiet, as if thinking. And yet the silence between them was not awkward. It was...companionable, that was the word. They had said what needed to be said for now, so they could just enjoy each other’s company. At least he hoped she was enjoying his company. Perhaps she thought he was boring, like Gus Bolt.
As they reached her front door, she looked up at him, her expression serious. ‘Thank you for understanding that I need to think about this.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It is a huge step, marriage.’ It was a good thing that she would take the time to think about it logically and rationally. As he had done.
She smiled. ‘Most men would think that they were the only ones who need to do any thinking about it. That a woman, especially in my situation, should simply say thank you very much—yes, please.’
‘Is that what Gus Bolt thought?’
She flushed. ‘I suppose he might have. My father told me that Sir Augustus had offered and he had accepted. That it was all settled. Sir Augustus was presented to me as my betrothed. I doubt either of them expected me to say anything about it at all. As far as my father was concerned it was none of my business.’ She bit her lip. ‘When I protested my father said I was being missish. That the marriage would work well enough if I just did as I was bid.’
Would Anne’s father have insisted on the marriage even if Anne had been repulsed? It didn’t bear thinking about. And here he was, perilously close to pushing Emma into marriage just because he could see no reason against it. She knew next to nothing about him. For all she knew he could be the sort of bastard who beat his wife. She had no one to protect her and ensure that the marriage settlement was equitable, or that her children would be protected. Women took a far greater risk in marriage than men.
Predictably, the children were lagging behind. They came up, faces a little downcast. Georgie took his hand and tugged on it. ‘Will you come again, sir?’
He smiled, his fingers closing on the little hand. That felt right, too. ‘Oh, yes. Your mother has said that I may. The day after tomorrow? If the weather is bad we could have an indoor picnic.’ Tomorrow he would see his solicitor and have the most careful and decent marriage settlement drawn up that he could devise. If he pretended that he was overseeing a marriage settlement for Marianne...he bit his lip. Or Georgie. Would he one day negotiate a match for Georgie?
‘An indoor picnic?’ Georgie giggled. ‘How do you do that?’
The question pushed back the abyss. ‘You spread a picnic rug on the floor and sit on that, and you eat picnic food,’ he said. Surely if he sent a message to the kitchen for food suitable to an indoor picnic his cook would rise to the occasion?
‘What sort of food do you have for an indoor picnic, Mama?’ Harry demanded.
Emma opened her mouth and shut it again, clearly uncertain.
‘That,’ Hunt said, ‘is a secret. You’ll have to wait and see.’ Along with himself.
‘But Mama has to know,’ Harry argued. ‘Because she’ll have to cook it with Bessie.’
Hunt shook his head. ‘Not when I’ve invited you to a picnic. That means I bring the picnic, you provide the games and entertainment.’
Georgie brightened. ‘Backgammon. Mama’s teaching me. And Harry can play chess.’
‘And what does Mama do?’ Emma’s voice was very dry, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
‘You keep us all in order,’ Hunt informed her. ‘I have no doubt that you’re very good at it.’
She sighed. ‘Wonderful.’ Laughter danced in her eyes, luring him. ‘A managing female.’ She slipped a hand into her worn pelisse and drew out the house key. Hunt took it from her gently. There was little enough he could do for her until she agreed to marry him, but he could do this. He could show her that the Marquess of Huntercombe would be a courteous, kindly husband.
‘I’ll do that.’ And wondered if he had overstepped the mark. But she smiled, a little wistfully he thought, as he slipped the key into the lock and turned it. A courtesy and a minor one at that. But he liked the thought of doing things for her.
Emma made the children say their goodbyes as soon as they were inside. ‘Off to the kitchen, both of you. Hang your damp things by the fire and tell Bessie I said you could have some hot milk.’
‘And cake?’ Harry wheedled.
‘A small piece,’ Emma allowed, as she pulled off her gloves. ‘Say goodbye to Lord Huntercombe.’
Georgie knelt down, hugged Fergus and shrieked with laughter as he licked her face. She jumped up, gave Hunt a ravishing smile. ‘You don’t need my hankie, do you, sir?’
Laughter welled up at the child’s certainty. He shook his head. ‘Not this time, Georgie. Enjoy your cake.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Harry held out his hand and Hunt shook it.
He watched the children as they rushed down the short hallway, waving at the door into the kitchen. It banged behind them.
That left Emma. He took a deep breath as he pulled off his own gloves. There was only one way to say farewell to a woman you had sort of asked to marry you...he caught her hands and his breath jerked at that first touch of his bare hands on hers. He felt the warmth of her skin, the slight roughness of her hands that told him she did indeed do some of the housework. Those deep eyes, drowning blue, widened as he drew her closer. ‘You permit?’ He wanted to kiss her. Every fibre in his body urged him to do just that. But she was not a woman who either gave herself, or could be taken lightly.
For a moment she looked utterly confused. ‘Permit? Oh!’ A flush crept over her cheeks. He thought her fingers trembled a little, or perhaps his did. Whichever it was, his heart was suddenly pounding. Yes, he was definitely attracted to her. Rather more than that if he were to be honest about it. He wanted her and every instinct clamoured for him to take her in his arms and show her that.
But this was supposed to be a polite, decorous courtship. A chaste kiss would be more the thing.
‘I think... I think I may have forgotten...’
Heat shot through him at the soft confession. ‘I haven’t,’ he assured her. Releasing her hands, he took her in his arms and drew her closer until their bodies touched and his blood hammered in a rhythm he had thought lost. It was not as though he had been a monk these past few years, but this was different. And not merely because he was thinking of marriage. It was just...different. She felt right in his arms, soft breasts against him, her eyes dark in her flushed face. She smelled of soap, just soap, rain-damp wool, and warm, sweet Emma.
‘My lord—’
‘Hunt.’ He put his hand under her chin. Lord, she was soft. Peach soft, silk soft. ‘My friends call me Hunt. Will you be my friend for now, Emma?’ He stroked the delicate line of her throat, knew the leap and quiver of her pulse under his fingers. And wanted. Burned. A chaste kiss.
‘Yes.’ It was no more than a whisper, yet he heard it in every corner of his being as he lowered his mouth to hers and feathered the lightest, briefest kiss over her lips. It nearly broke his control, because her lips flowered under his, opening on the sweetest, softest sigh, inviting him in. Everything in him leapt to meet her response and he took the kiss deeper, tasting the warmth and shy welcome of her mouth. She met him, took the rhythm from him and their tongues matched, danced. Her body moulded to his, supple and pliant under his hands. He found the curve of her bottom, pressed to bring her more fully against his aching shaft and heard the soft gasp of shock.
A kiss. Just a kiss. This was more than just a kiss.
And he was going to want more than just sex... Damn.
Somehow he broke the kiss, released her and stepped back, his body taut with protest. Just a kiss. He would not give her the least reason to think he subscribed to society’s usual attitude to widows with a shady past. Even if his body had no discretion, he didn’t have to give it free rein. Not until he had her to wife. And even then, this was to be a marriage of convenience. The sort where a gentleman visited his wife’s bed, then retired to his own.
‘Au revoir, ma’am.’ He raised his hat, put his gloves back on and left. Before he could change his mind. The door safely closed behind him, Hunt used the short walk back to the inn where he had left his carriage to remind himself exactly what a marriage of convenience entailed. An alliance of mutual benefit. A contract, an arrangement that would not require any changes to the routine of his life. Except for regular sex. As enjoyable as he could make it for both of them. But not passion. They would be friends with an affectionate regard for one another. Not lovers in any more than the physical sense of the word.
* * *
Emma only permitted herself to think about Hunt’s not-quite offer after she had kissed Harry goodnight. She went back down to the parlour and tried to consider it dispassionately.
There were no logical arguments against. Not if he could accept her past.
Hunt was offering a future for the children. Without even waiting to be asked he had said that he would dower Georgie as if she were his own daughter and named a sum that had nearly made Emma’s jaw drop. Harry could have a good tutor, go to school, university and be trained for a profession. There would be money settled on him as if he were Hunt’s younger son. Money would be settled on her to provide for her in the event of Hunt’s death.
I’m not precisely a spring chicken. She smiled at the memory of his wry voice. How old was he? She was no spring chicken herself.
He offered passage back into the world from which she had been exiled. She had never regretted the exile for herself, only the difficulties of providing for the children. But now she had a way back and a future for her children. All she had to do was marry him without love on either side. Instead she would have respect, some affection and kindness. And the title of Marchioness of Huntercombe.
She liked him. He was a good man, honourable to the core. She had enjoyed his company both the other day and today. But she had loved Peter. Passionately. If she married Hunt she would be marrying for advantage. Though she could not pretend it would only be for the children’s sake. She wouldn’t insult Hunt by wearing pretty clothes again and accepting jewels from him, while pretending they were sack cloth and ashes she wore for the sake of Harry and Georgie. Nor could she pretend that she would not enjoy sharing her bed with a man again.
No. Not just any man—Hunt. Her breath caught. She wanted him. Her whole body hummed at the memory of that kiss. Hours later and the shock of awareness lingered, with the faint enticing odour of sandalwood soap, damp wool and warm male. She could still feel the fierce strength of his arms as he held her and her breath hitched at the remembered taste of his kiss, hot and male, as her mouth had trembled into that swift, shocking response. Heat crept over her cheeks at the memory of his erection pressed against her belly. Had her response shocked him? Would he think her a wanton or, even worse, desperate to have responded so fast? So freely? He had called her ma’am afterwards and left immediately, but—she was being foolish. He was the one who had initiated the kiss. If he didn’t want a response then he should have delivered a chaste peck to the cheek. He was the one who had pulled her against him.
But she had wanted him, still wanted him, and it bothered her. Other men had made advances to her in the last few years. None of them had interested her and not just because they had offered nothing more than an affair. She hadn’t even been attracted, let alone tempted. If Hunt had wanted an affair, well, she hoped she would have refused, but she could admit to herself that without the children to consider it would be tempting.
He had asked her to be his friend, but with very little encouragement, or perhaps none at all, she could do very much more than simply like him. There was something about the quiet confidence, the dignity that was far more than his rank—that was simply him. And he was kind. Not in a patronising sort of way; that could annoy. His kindness was bone-deep. And, she smiled, there was something very appealing about a man so obviously fond of his dog. He had been open with her, honest. She would be a fool to refuse...if, in the end, he offered for her. Because he had not offered marriage as yet. He had asked to court her, to have a chance for them to become acquainted.
And there was the other thing that bothered her; she already knew her answer. Just as she had with Peter almost from the first moment of meeting him at that house party so long ago. They had ridden out in a large group, but somehow it had been as if no one else existed from that moment. And she had known, just as she knew now. Although it was a little different. With Peter she had known that she was falling in love; with Hunt she simply knew that she wanted to marry him, that she could be happy with him.
She who, according to her parents, had flung her life away for love was now prepared to marry for convenience.
For safety. For her children’s future.
Only there had been that kiss... Something inside her fluttered, something she had thought if not dead, then asleep.
