Marrying the Major: Passion and peril in Regency London (Unsuitable Matches) Read online

  Richard frowned. At his side, Jamie too wore a worried look. Emma reached out a hand to her. "Pray, do not be concerned, Jamie. It seemed to me that Colonel Forster was simply trying to make mischief. And I'm certain that His Royal Highness ignored what was said." Emma was trying to sound more optimistic than she felt. She had failed to glean any information from Kit after they left the royal party. He had been charming, and entertaining, but he would not be drawn on anything to do with his brother.

  Jamie gave voice to Emma's thoughts. "There is something of a mystery here," she said after a moment, "but I, for one, refuse to believe anything against Major Stratton. From what I learned in Brussels, he acquitted himself most honourably on the field at Waterloo. And I know him to be a very fine man. Colonel Forster sounds to be exactly the kind of man whom I would not wish to know."

  At dinner a few hours later, Emma was surprised to find that Aunt Augusta had seated her between Kit Stratton and the Honourable James Frobisher, a singularly dull young gentleman who had nothing but aristocratic lineage to recommend him. Emma, a practised hostess, was equally polite and friendly to them both. Watching her while she listened to Mr Frobisher's self-important discourse, no one would have known that she was longing for the moment when she could, with propriety, turn back to Kit. He, at least, was prepared to converse about something other than himself, his prowess on the hunting field, and his family's numberless acres.

  Kit had certainly set out to be entertaining. He had also decided, Emma was sure, that the conversation would be steered well away from any discussion of his enigmatic older brother. Faced with Kit's resolution, Emma yielded with good grace, allowing the light-hearted conversation to range as widely as he wished. Since Hugo was seated at the far end of the table, and on the same side, Emma could not judge whether the other guests were succeeding in drawing him out. But she would be able to find that out from her father, later.

  "And so we had no choice but to pretend that the handkerchief belonged to his mother," said Kit, concluding a slightly racy but very amusing anecdote.

  Emma laughed, as did all those within earshot. Kit was certainly an entertaining raconteur. She could not help but notice the envious glances cast her way by several of the young ladies present. For appearances' sake, Aunt Augusta had had to invite a number of debutantes to the house party, as well as potential suitors. It was too obvious for Emma's peace of mind that Aunt Augusta's choice had fallen on young ladies who would be cast into the shade by her niece. Two of them were pretty enough, but too silly for words. The other two were really rather plain. And none of them, of course, was as great an heiress as Emma. No wonder they were looking daggers at her. Not only had they been excluded from an invitation to wait on a royal duke, but the handsomest gentleman in the room was now focusing all his attention on Emma.

  Miss Mayhew, who was not only plain but also ill-educated, in Emma's opinion, was making sheep's eyes across the table at Kit Stratton. Emma was glad to see that Kit was pretending not to notice, at least for the moment. His company manners were exactly as they should be. When the party was eventually reunited in the drawing room, however, Miss Mayhew was bound to resume her gauche assault. Although Kit would surely continue to bear it with good grace, it would be most embarrassing for the other guests. Emma resolved to have a word with her aunt. Although Miss Mayhew's mother had insisted on accompanying her daughter to the house party, she had done nothing at all to restrain her daughter's unbecoming behaviour. It must fall to the senior hostess to drop a word in the girl's ear.

  When Mrs Warenne rose to signal the ladies' departure, Mr Frobisher almost knocked over his own chair in his rush to help Emma from hers. His fingers brushed against her bare shoulder—intentionally, Emma was sure. She felt nothing. Mr Frobisher was neither attractive nor repellent. He simply left her totally unmoved, whereas the slightest touch of Hugo Stratton's fingers made her skin prickle and heat, even through several layers of clothing. She tried to remember whether it had been so before that incredible kiss. For the life of her, she could not say. All her encounters with the major seemed to have merged, somehow; she was no longer sure what she had felt when they first met again. Perhaps that was because they had not touched until that fateful day in Jamie's conservatory? No, that could not be right. They must have shaken hands a score of times. It was a conundrum, to be sure, and Emma knew that it would require cool detachment to puzzle it out.

  But, whenever Major Hugo Stratton was concerned, Emma's cool detachment seemed to fly out of the window.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Perhaps you would favour us with some music, Miss Mayhew?" Emma was resolved to be kind to the girl, especially as she was likely to receive a sharp dressing-down from Aunt Augusta, some time later in the evening. "You have such a sweet singing voice, you know. Some of the gentlemen have remarked upon it, most particularly." Emma's generous compliment had the advantage of being true.

  Miss Mayhew simpered and blushed a little, before making her way to the instrument. She must know that she would appear at her best if she was in the middle of a song when the gentlemen returned to the drawing room. And if she were in any doubt, one look at her smiling, nodding mother, comfortably ensconced on the sofa alongside the dowager countess, would have settled the matter.

  Miss Mayhew had barely started her song when the door opened to admit the gentlemen. Emma was at first surprised to see that Major Stratton arrived along with the others, but a moment's reflection explained matters. This house, unlike her father's or Richard's, had all its public rooms on the ground floor, and only bedrooms on the floor above. It might have been expressly designed to accommodate a man who had difficulty climbing stairs. It was even possible to reach the garden directly from the drawing room, via a stone terrace that ran the length of the room. Emma had not yet taken time to explore the gardens, but Jamie had assured her that they were splendid, laid out in the old style with high hedges and secret nooks and crannies, all brimful of beautiful plants.

  Emma looked longingly at the French windows. The room was already uncomfortably hot. And the arrival of eight gentlemen would certainly make it even hotter. A few moments in the cool evening air would be delightful but, as joint hostess, she must not be seduced away from her duties to her guests.

  Emma's father was looking quite pleased with himself. Good food and wine had helped him forget his disappointment. Taking his sister to one side, so that only Emma and Jamie could hear, he whispered, "Here they all are, m'dear. Told you I wouldn't let them linger in the dining room. Now, what about a few tables for cards?"

  Aunt Augusta gave him a withering look. "There's no point in bringing them back early if you're going to allow them to be tied to card tables for the rest of the evening. Really, Edward, you should know better." Her voice had risen enough to start attracting attention, but she simply turned her back on the other guests and said, in a voice that was almost a whisper, "The young men must circulate, Edward, else what is the point of bringing them here in the first place?"

  Emma looked at Jamie and then looked quickly away. It would not do for either of them to laugh. Emma forced herself to give all her attention to Miss Mayhew's performance on the pianoforte.

  The song ended. Under cover of the polite applause, Jamie said quietly to Emma's aunt, "I can quite understand that Sir Edward would welcome a rubber of whist, ma'am. Richard's mama is a fine player, you know. Perhaps Richard and I might make up the four?"

  Aunt Augusta was surprised. "Well, if you are sure, ma'am," she said, hesitating a little. "I suppose there is something to be said for indulging my brother's desire for cards, provided the table is set up in some other room. It would not do to distract the young men. It's difficult enough as it is." She bustled off to collect the dowager.

  Emma's papa was beaming at Jamie. "By Jove, ma'am, you think of everything." Jamie merely smiled and led the way out to the library where the little card party would not be disturbed.

  Aunt Augusta brought up the rear, fussing as usual. Em
ma was forcibly reminded of a sheepdog snapping at the heels of its flock. Aunt Augusta was quite determined that all the young male guests should have an opportunity of setting out their stalls before her niece, though Emma was very sure that none of them would suit. She looked around the room. One of the gentlemen would be at her side in a moment, of that she was quite certain. Please, Lord, let it not be that boring—

  "Mr Frobisher." Emma smiled gamely at her erstwhile dinner partner who had come to station himself between her and the other guests. There was no escape.

  "Delightful music, ma'am," said Mr Frobisher. "I hope you will favour us with a song or two in the course of the evening."

  Emma nodded politely. If Mr Frobisher was determined to monopolise her, the evening was set to become duller by the minute.

  Hugo retreated as far as possible from the instrument the moment Miss Mayhew rose from it. None of the other three debutantes had any musical talent at all, and it pained him to be forced to listen to them. There was a darkish corner at the far end of the long room, by the French windows. From there, he would be able to watch all the younger men circling round Emma like vultures. And, if watching became too much of an ordeal, he would slip out on to the terrace and into the blessed solitude of the garden.

  Hugo saw that Kit was being his usual charming self. While the males were buzzing round Emma, the females were using every trick in the book to attract Kit's attention. All except Emma. She was concentrating her full attention on the appalling Frobisher. He had been fawning over the poor girl all night, and now—

  Hugo's senses were suddenly on the alert. Frobisher, presumably unable to hold his wine, was starting to paw Emma in a most unseemly fashion.

  Before Hugo could get his stiff limbs into motion, his younger brother had taken charge. "I think you've had your share of our hostess's company, Frobisher," he said lightly. "Time to give the other fellows a chance, eh?" He offered his arm. "Tempt you to a turn about the room, Miss Fitzwilliam? It is a little hot, especially in this stuffy corner."

  Hugo found himself smiling a little ruefully. Kit was really very, very good. Frobisher was looking stunned. Had he understood the import of Kit's words? Probably not, especially if his brain was fuddled with wine.

  Emma and Kit made an exceptionally handsome couple promenading round the huge drawing room. And all Emma's earlier hostility to Kit seemed to have disappeared. It was more than mere gratitude for having saved her from Frobisher, Hugo concluded. The pair were laughing together now as if they had been fast friends for years, perhaps more than friends. Trust Kit to succeed with the most desirable woman in the room. He certainly seemed much taken with Emma. It would not be merely her beauty, for Kit had had more than his fair share of society beauties in his short career on the town. No, Emma was a match for Kit in all sorts of ways. Above all, she equalled Kit in independence of spirit. She cast all the other ladies into the shade.

  When all the guests had performed, the lot fell to Emma. Hugo fancied she was trying to resist her aunt's persuasions, but her protest could not last long. Mrs Warenne was like the hot wind blowing up from Africa—a wise soldier soon learned that there was no alternative but to let it have its way.

  Leaning back against the wall in his obscure corner, Hugo let Emma's music fill his mind. It was the first time he had ever heard her sing. And it was beautiful. Her singing voice was lower than he had expected, and full of honeyed warmth. She sang her simple Italian ballad with real feeling, almost caressing each word, as if she herself were that abandoned Italian girl mourning the loss of her love.

  The enthusiastic applause was interrupted by the arrival of the tea tray. There would be no encore from Emma, who immediately set herself to pouring refreshments for her guests. Frobisher was among the first to present himself to her and seemed inclined to linger at her side. Watching, Hugo found his hands balling into fists.

  "Will you inform the party in the library that tea is being served, please, Godfrey?" Emma said. As usual, her first concern was the comfort of her guests.

  "The table has already broken up, Miss Emma," replied the butler. "The countess and the dowager countess send their apologies. They wished to retire without intruding on the other guests. Lord Hardinge and Sir Edward have repaired to the billiard room."

  Hugo could see that Emma was disappointed at being deserted by her father. He was not therefore surprised to hear her encouraging Frobisher to join the billiard party. She must be heartily sick of the man after this evening's unsavoury performance. Unfortunately for Emma, Frobisher did not seem inclined to take the hint.

  Kit intervened once again. Taking Frobisher firmly by the arm, he said, "Splendid idea, ma'am. Know Frobisher is the very devil with the cue." He took Frobisher's cup and handed it to Emma, who was looking warmly up at Kit. "You're not afraid of a challenge from me, are you, Frobisher?" Kit continued. The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

  Hugo almost felt sorry for Frobisher. The man had no chance at all against Kit's stronger will. With a few carefully chosen words, Kit had taken charge and propelled Frobisher out of the room. Emma would, undoubtedly, be very grateful. Not that it showed for even a second though, for no sooner had the door closed behind the pair than Emma was busying herself in organising further entertainment for her guests. In a moment, she would notice that Hugo was missing from the main party, and then…

  Hugo slid his hand behind the curtain to undo the window latch so that he could slip out into the garden. He did not want Emma's solicitude. She would not look up at him as she had looked at his magnificent brother. For tonight, at least, he would rather she did not look at him at all.

  Emma took a deep breath and stepped out on to the terrace, allowing the heavy drapes to fall back into place behind her. She needed a few moments of solitude and cool air to clear her head, and then she would return to her guests. No one would notice her departure, surely? The party in the drawing room was now totally involved in a childish game of lottery tickets, the young ladies squealing with pleasure every time they won. Even Mrs Mayhew had been persuaded to play, though in more restrained fashion. And the billiard room group was bound to be deeply absorbed in their game. She supposed Major Stratton must have gone to join them, too. One moment he was leaning nonchalantly against the far wall, clearly unmoved by Emma's singing, the next he had disappeared. No doubt he preferred the excitement of billiards to the tame entertainments on offer in the drawing room.

  His indifference hurt. Emma had to admit that to herself. Knowing he was listening, she had poured all her unvoiced longings into that song, immersing herself in the character of the heartbroken peasant girl. She felt those longings still, as if some part of that character were also her own. Strange, for she had never loved and lost. She had never even loved.

  The grey stone balustrading was pleasantly cool under Emma's hands. It felt calming, somehow. Emma took a deep breath of the scented night air. She tried to distinguish the various perfumes, but could not. Jamie, with her vast knowledge of plants, would have known them at once, but she had retired to bed. If Emma wanted to find the source of the elusive fragrances assailing her senses, she would have to go into the garden and seek them out. Why not? It would take but a few moments. The heady perfumes were incredibly seductive, making her whole body feel as if she were relaxing into a warm, soothing bath, yet heightening all her senses at the same time. A most extraordinary combination.

  Intrigued, Emma wandered from avenue to avenue, more than half dreaming now. The scents were becoming stronger at every step, almost intoxicating. At the corner of a secret garden, she paused, wondering. Yes, here. She closed her eyes and executed a lazy pirouette, relishing the feel of fine silken petticoats as her skirts billowed and then settled back against her limbs. It was as if velvet gloves had stroked her bare skin. Velvet gloves worn on gentle hands.

  Emma paused to inhale yet more of the voluptuous perfume in the tiny garden. This strange place was meant to be seen by moonlight. Its white trumpet flowers shimmer
ed mysteriously on long stems that were almost invisible. In the centre, a tall arch was dripping with pale roses. At the far the end of the path, framed by the arch, was a marble statue of some ancient pagan goddess, beautiful and commanding. The venerable yew hedge, dark and brooding, stood sentry against any intrusion into the goddess's hidden grotto. Was this the secret garden of the fairy tales, appearing only once in a lifetime and then only to those in love?

  For she was in love, in love with Hugo Stratton. It was as if she had always known it.

  She picked a stem of the magical white flowers, inhaling deeply of their ravishing scent. For an instant, she felt as if she were hovering somewhere above the ground, looking down at her own body meandering among the flowers. And then she floated softly back to earth.

  She reached up to pull down a branch of roses, awed by their pristine perfection. Were they white, or perhaps pale pink? It was of no moment. In the silvery moonlight, they were unbelievably beautiful. She stroked a soft petal, marvelling at its velvet bloom, like a baby's soft cheek.

  If Hugo were here, and if he loved her in return, he would pluck these roses and offer them to her as a token. He would tell her that the roses would fade and die, but that his love would last for ever. He would take her in his arms and—