Читать книгу Marrying The Major - Joanna Maitland - Страница 9

Hugo lay back on his pillows and gazed out through the open bed-curtains at the first faint glimmerings of the dawn. Years of living in the Peninsula had taught him to love the huge expanse of the night sky and the unchanging patterns of the stars. He would never again permit drawn curtains to shut them out—or to shut him in.

Gingerly, he raised his injured left arm so that he could clasp his hands behind his head. That simple movement, never before achieved, gave him profound satisfaction. Yes, he was making progress—a little progress.

He focused on the day ahead—and on the evening. He was a fool to have accepted her invitation. It would mean nothing but embarrassment for him; and the usual expressions of pity and horror at his injuries. But she had been so apologetic about their disastrous first meeting. And, for just a single moment, she had made him feel like a whole man again.

Hugo groaned aloud. It would not do to remember Emma too clearly. Her figure-hugging riding habit would have fired any man’s blood; and that long feather had reached down from her saucy little hat, caressing the soft bloom of her cheek like a lover’s hand. He had known that she was working her wiles on him—but, even as he recognised how artfully she was using her huge blue eyes, he had found himself unable to resist them.

The hoyden child had become a siren woman.

Hugo closed his eyes once more, trying to shut out Emma’s persistent image. It would not do for him to think too kindly of her. She was a spoilt, flirtatious little minx—in some respects she had not changed one jot—and she obviously enjoyed making a May game of every man she met. How many offers had she rejected out of hand? Richard had not said precisely, but there had certainly been quite a number. And, in spite of such behaviour, she was still the toast of London Society, with every eligible male dangling after her.

Hugo’s weak arm was now very stiff. He straightened it with difficulty, and some pain, which reminded him that he, at least, was far from eligible.

Hugo leant back in his chair, his right hand playing idly with his glass of port. So far, at least, the Longacres dinner party had passed off much better than he had dared to hope. None of the guests had stared; and no one had embarrassed him in any way, not even by offering to help him on the stairs. Clearly, Emma had been as good as her word. Hugo felt himself warming to her even more. She might be a little spoilt—just a very little, he had now decided—but she could be thoughtful, and kind. She was upstairs now with the ladies, where she would be dispensing coffee with that radiant smile of hers, and ensuring that every one of her guests felt she had been singled out for special attention.

Exactly as he had felt, when he arrived with the Hardinges.

Naturally, Emma’s first priority had been Lady Hardinge, but she had welcomed Hugo with gentle words, and with warmth in her eyes and in the clasp of her hand. He had had leisure, then, to admire her from a distance while she settled Lady Hardinge into a comfortable chair in the saloon, putting extra cushions in the small of her back. It was no wonder that Emma had become the toast of London Society, he had concluded; her radiant golden beauty would have ensured her success, even if she had been penniless. Tonight, she was glowing in a simple gown of cream silk, with a posy of forget-me-nots at her bosom, their clear blue serving only to point up the intense colour of Emma’s eyes. Hugo found himself envying the man who would win her.

‘Don’t you agree, Hugo?’

Richard was speaking. But what had he said? Hugo raised his glass and sipped, savouring the rich sweetness for a moment. Then he smiled a little ruefully. ‘Forgive me, Richard. I was miles away. What did you say?’

Richard shook his head. ‘I never had you down for a dreamer, Hugo—except about adventures, of course.’

‘That was a long time ago, I fear,’ Hugo responded neutrally. These last few days, Richard had begun to make oblique references to their shared past and to Hugo’s years of soldiering. It was necessary, Hugo knew, and he was grateful to Richard for his tact.

‘As it happens,’ Richard continued with barely a pause, ‘we were talking of the Derby. Sir Edward’s Golden Star is being heavily backed at Tatt’s. Is that not so, sir?’ He turned to his host at the head of the table.

Sir Edward paused in the act of refilling his own glass. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he smiled. ‘Odds are terrible. I wouldn’t hazard your blunt on him now, Major, even if he is the favourite. There’s no such thing as a certain winner for the Derby, as I know to my cost. You’d get better odds on one of the others. Try Grafton’s nag. After all, his horse won last year. Can’t remember what this one’s called…something foreign, I fancy.’

‘Alien,’ put in the Rector from further down the table. Beyond him, young Mr Mountjoy nodded eagerly.

Hugo suppressed a chuckle at the thought of such precise knowledge coming from a gentleman in clerical bands. The Reverend Greenwood had been an avid man of the turf in his youth and made no secret of his continuing interest, even though he had long ago ceased to place bets himself. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hugo. ‘And is he worth a wager, in your opinion?’

‘Possibly,’ said the Rector doubtfully, ‘though I prefer Nectar myself. But if Golden Star is on form, he’ll show them all a clean pair of heels, you mark my words. I suppose Alien might be good for a place, though.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hugo again. ‘I think I’ll save my blunt for better odds.’

‘You’re probably very wise, Major,’ said Sir Edward, nodding. ‘But I hope you’ll join our party to Epsom, none the less. It promises to be a very jolly affair. Richard is coming, are you not, Richard?’

Richard looked suddenly somewhat disconcerted. ‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘I’m not exactly certain. I…Jamie’s condition…’

Sir Edward reddened visibly and cleared his throat. ‘Beg pardon, Richard,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m afraid I—’ He rose abruptly from his chair, without draining his glass. ‘I fear we are neglecting the ladies. Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, gentlemen?’

Hugo allowed all his companions to move out ahead of him, so that he would be the last to mount the stairs.

Emma was deep in conversation with Mr Mountjoy when Hugo gained the drawing room. As house-guests of the Rector, the young man and his sister had had to be invited, even though they were not close friends of the Fitzwilliams. Hugo could see that the brother appeared to be much taken with Emma—for, although he was conversing with animation, his eyes held the slightly dazed look that tended to afflict very young men on first meeting a ravishing beauty. Hugo himself had been the same—a lifetime ago.

Miss Mountjoy rose from the pianoforte and crossed the room to join her brother. ‘Oh, Miss Fitzwilliam,’ she began impulsively, ‘this is such a lovely room—just made for dancing. Might we not make up a set? It would be such fun.’

For a moment, Emma seemed to be at a loss for words. Hugo thought he could see the beginnings of a flush on her neck.

Mr Mountjoy beamed at his sister’s suggestion. ‘Why, that would be wholly delightful,’ he said. ‘I should be honoured if you would consent to partner me, ma’am.’

Emma’s flush was mounting. Hugo wondered how she would respond to her young guests’ highly improper proposal without embarrassing them. Lady Hardinge could not dance, given her condition. The Rector’s wife and Mrs Halliday would probably view such an impromptu affair with stern misgivings. That left only Miss Mountjoy herself—and Emma.

‘Well…’ began Emma doubtfully.

Lady Hardinge intervened. ‘I’m afraid I am not able to dance myself,’ she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ‘but I would gladly play for those who can.’

That settled it, for no one would gainsay the Countess. Hugo saw that Emma was both relieved and sorry. However, she said nothing more on the question, merely turning her attention to ensuring the servants set about rolling back the Turkey carpet.

Hugo tried to avoid Miss Mountjoy’s hopeful glances. In spite of her youth—and his disfigurement—she had clearly marked him down as the only bachelor in the room. She was pretty enough, but incredibly gauche—seemingly she did not begin to grasp that country dances were quite beyond Hugo’s capabilities at present.

Richard came again to the rescue. ‘My wife may have excused herself from dancing,’ he said brightly, ‘but that is no reason why I should deny myself the pleasure. Will you honour me, Miss Mountjoy?’

The sudden glow on the girl’s features suggested that she had never before been led into the dance by a peer of the realm.

Two couples looking somewhat sparse, Sir Edward offered his hand to his old friend, Mrs Halliday. Then Lady Hardinge struck up the opening chord and, in no time, the set was forming and re-forming.

Hugo crossed to the instrument to offer to turn for her ladyship.

As he bent forward, she said softly, ‘I hope you will forgive me, Major—but Miss Mountjoy does not really know how to go on. She is so very young…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘So young that you stepped in to save her blushes—as Richard saved mine,’ said Hugo warmly. ‘You are, both of you, most thoughtful, ma’am. Miss Mountjoy may be too unschooled in the ways of the world to collect what was done for her, but I certainly am not. Thank you.’

‘Major Stratton—now you attempt to put me to the blush,’ said Lady Hardinge with mock severity, ‘besides distracting me from my task. Emma will upbraid me roundly if I fail to keep time.’

Hugo smiled down at her, even though she was looking at her music rather than at him. Her playing was expert—not a note out of place. He was lucky to have such friends.

At the end of the set, Miss Mountjoy came rushing back to the pair at the pianoforte. ‘Oh, Lady Hardinge, that was such fun. Thank you so much. You played quite beautifully.’

Her brother appeared at her elbow, echoing her thanks. ‘Could you be persuaded to just one more set, ma’am?’ he continued. ‘This is terrifically good sport.’

Lady Hardinge nodded and began to leaf through the music on the instrument.

Mr Mountjoy was clearly remembering his manners, at last. ‘But I must not monopolise our hostess,’ he said, looking towards Emma and then back to Hugo. ‘If you wish to stand up with one of the ladies, sir, I should gladly take over your duty here.’

Hugo swallowed the biting snub that rose temptingly to his lips. The young puppy meant well enough. And his sister was still looking hopeful, unfortunately. ‘Thank you, but no,’ Hugo said. ‘I do not dance this evening.’

Mr Mountjoy bowed and withdrew, looking relieved.

Lady Hardinge, having selected her music, was about to begin to play once more. ‘Major,’ she said in an undertone, ‘I really do not need a page-turner, you know.’

Hugo laughed quietly. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I shall take that as my congé,’ he said. With a polite bow, he made his way to the door as quickly as he could without drawing attention to his departure. He would go down to the terrace, just for a quarter of an hour or so, to smoke a cigar in private. All the ladies were occupied. He would not be missed.

Emma was not best pleased to be dancing a second set with Mr Mountjoy. She told herself it was because a hostess should not allow herself to be monopolised by a single guest—but out of the corner of her eye, she found she was watching Hugo’s every move. She felt very proud of him—even though she knew she had no right to be, for she was nothing to him, not even a friend. She had feared he would snub silly Miss Mountjoy—or her equally silly brother—but he had shown remarkable restraint. Probably he had been used to dealing with rash young subalterns during his army days and knew just how thin-skinned they could be.

Noticing Hugo slip out of the room, Emma remembered that he, too, was thin-skinned. It was not surprising that he wanted to escape from the Mountjoys and the dancing. Emma wondered, while she mechanically executed the steps of the figure, whether Hugo had liked to dance before his injury. All the more distressing for him, if it were so. Poor Hugo.

No, not ‘poor Hugo’. She was beginning to feel sorry for him—as he was feeling sorry for himself. But it was wrong to encourage him to withdraw even further into his shell. No matter how dreadful his injuries, he should not hide from the world. No true friend would permit him to do so. It was already obvious that he was making some progress; he climbed the stairs much more easily than before. Surely he could learn to ride again—and to drive and to shoot—if he were but prepared to make the effort? Emma resolved to enlist Richard’s help in making Hugo face up to the future. Between them they could help Hugo to become more like the man he had been. Why—he might even be able to dance again, one day.

At that moment, Emma thought she heard the sound of the front door being opened. Hugo could not be leaving, surely? He would not be so impolite. And besides, he could not leave without Jamie and Richard. No. Someone else must have called.

Emma gratefully excused herself to Mr Mountjoy and hurried out on to the landing to see what was happening. Looking over the balusters, she saw that a complete stranger had been admitted. A tall dark man was lounging carelessly against the delicate spindle-legged table in the hallway and lazily twirling an ivory-handled quizzing glass. On his face was an expression of acute boredom.

But he was, without doubt, the most beautiful specimen of manhood that Emma had ever beheld.

Emma stood transfixed on the landing, unable to tear her eyes away from the gentleman’s finely chiselled features. Then, from the vicinity of her father’s study, she heard Hugo’s voice exclaim in surprise, ‘Kit! What on earth are you doing here?’

The newcomer raised a mocking eyebrow, but did not move an inch from where he stood. ‘Why, waiting for someone to relieve me of my coat,’ he replied in an affected drawl. ‘What else did you think I might be doing, brother?’