Running from Scandal

Emma saw the flash of worry in Jane’s hazel eyes before she bent her head over the needle and Emma took her other hand with a quick smile.

‘Of course we must have a night out, Jane, you are quite right,’ she’d said, making herself laugh. ‘You must be so bored here with just me and my books after your grand London life. We shall go to the assembly and have fun.’

Jane laughed, too, but Emma heard the sadness in it. The sadness had lingered ever since Jane brought Emma back to Barton Park almost three years before, when Jane’s husband, the earl, hadn’t appeared in many months. Emma didn’t know what had happened between them in London and she didn’t want to pry, but nor did she want to add to her sister’s worry.

‘My London life was not all that grand,’ Jane said, ‘and I am not sorry it’s behind me. But soon it will be your time to go out in the world, Emma. The village doesn’t have a wide society, true, but it’s a start.’

And that was what Emma feared—that soon it would be her turn to step out into the world and she would make horrid mistakes. She was too impulsive by half, and even though she knew it she had no idea how to stop it.

So she stood by the wall, watching, sipping her punch, trying not to tear Jane’s pretty dress. For an instant before they left Barton and Emma glimpsed herself in the mirror, she hadn’t believed it was really her. Jane had put her blonde, curling hair up in a twisted bandeau of ribbons and, teamed with her mother’s pearl necklace, even Emma had to admit the effect was much prettier than her everyday braid and apron.

The local young men seemed to agree as well. She noticed a group of them over by the windows: bluff, hearty, red-faced country lads dressed in their finest town evening coats and cravats, watching her and whispering. Which was exactly what she did not want. Not after Mr Milne, the passionate school music master. She turned away and pretended to be studiously observing something edifying across the room.

She saw Jane standing next to the refreshment table with a tall gentleman in a sombre dark-blue coat who had his back to Emma. Even though Emma was not having the very best of evenings, the smile on her sister’s face made her glad they had ventured out after all.

Jane so seldom mentioned her estranged husband or their life in London, though Emma had always followed Jane’s social activities in the newspapers while she was at school and knew it must have been very glamorous. Barton Park was not in the least glamorous, and even though Jane insisted she was most content, Emma wondered and worried.

Tonight, Jane was smiling, even laughing, her dark hair glossy in the candlelight and her lilac muslin-and-lace gown soft and pretty. She shook her head at something the tall gentleman said and gestured toward Emma with a smile. Emma stood up straighter as they both turned to look at her.

‘Blast it all,’ she whispered, and quickly smiled when an elderly lady nearby gave her a disapproving glance. But she couldn’t help cursing just a little. For it was Sir David Marton who was talking to her sister.

Sir David had been visiting at Barton more often of late than Emma could like. He always came with his sister, Miss Louisa Marton, very proper and everything since his estate at Rose Hill was their nearest neighbour. But still. Jane was married, even though Lord Ramsay never came to Barton. And Sir David was too handsome by half. Handsome, and far too serious. She doubted he ever laughed at all.

She studied him across the room, trying not to frown. He nodded at whatever Jane was saying, watching Emma solemnly from behind his spectacles. She was glad he wasn’t near enough for her to see his eyes. They were a strange, piercing pale-grey colour, and whenever he looked at her so steadily with them he seemed to see far too much.

Emma unconsciously smoothed her skirt, feeling young and fidgety and silly. Which was the very last way she ever wanted to appear in front of Sir David.

He nodded again at Jane and gave her a gentle smile. He always spoke so gently, so respectfully to Jane, with a unique spark of humour in those extraordinary eyes. He never had that gentle humour when he looked at Emma. Then he was solemn and watchful.

Emma had never felt jealous of Jane before. How could she be, when Jane was the best of sisters, and had such unhappiness hidden in her heart? But when Sir David Marton was around, Emma almost—almost—did feel jealous.

And she could not fathom why. Sir David was not at all the sort of man she was sure she could admire. He was too quiet, too serious. Too—conventional. Emma couldn’t read him at all.

And now—oh, blast it all again! Now they were coming across the room toward her.

Emma nearly wished she had spoken with one of the country squires after all. She never knew what to say to Sir David that wouldn’t make her feel young and foolish around him. That might make him smile at her.

‘Emma dear, I was just talking to Sir David about your new interest in botany,’ Jane said as they reached Emma’s side.

Emma glanced up at Sir David, who was watching her with that inscrutable, solemn look. The smile he had given Jane was quite gone. It made her feel so very tongue-tied, as if words flew into her head only to fly right back out again. She hadn’t felt so very nervous, so unsure, since she left school, and she did not like that feeling at all.

‘Were you indeed?’ Emma said softly, looking away from him.

‘My sister mentioned that she drove past you on the lane a few days ago,’ Sir David said, his tone as calm and serious as he looked. ‘She said when she offered you a ride home you declared you had to finish your work. As it was rather a muddy day, Louisa found that a bit—interesting.’

Against her will, Emma’s feelings pricked just a bit. She had never wanted to care what anyone thought of her, not after Mr Milne. Miss Louisa Marton was a silly gossip, and there was no knowing what exactly she had told her brother or what he thought of Emma now. Did he think her ridiculous for her studies? For her unladylike interests such as grubbing around in the dirt?

‘I am quite the beginner in my studies,’ Emma said. ‘Finding plant specimens to study is an important part of it all. When the ground is damp can be the best time to collect some of them. But it was very kind of your sister to stop for me.’

‘I fear Emma has little scope for her interests since she left school to come live here with me,’ Jane said. ‘I am no teacher myself.’

‘Oh, no, Jane!’ Emma cried, her shyness disappearing at her sister’s sad, rueful tone. ‘I love living at Barton. Mr Lorne at the bookshop here in the village keeps me well supplied. I have learned much more here than I ever did at that silly school. But perhaps Sir David finds my efforts dull.’

‘Not at all, Miss Bancroft,’ he said, and to her surprise she heard a smile in his voice. She glanced up at him to find that there was indeed a hint of a curve to his lips. There was even a flash of a ridiculously attractive dimple in his cheeks.

And she also realised she should not have looked at him. Up close he really was absurdly handsome, with a face as lean and carefully chiselled as a classical statue. His gleaming mahogany hair, which he usually ruthlessly combed down, betrayed a thick, soft wave in the damp air, tempting a touch. She wondered whimsically if he wore those spectacles in a vain attempt to keep ladies from fainting at his feet.

‘You do not find them dull, Sir David?’ Emma said, feeling foolish that she could find nothing even slightly cleverer to say.

‘Not at all. Everyone, male or female, needs interests in life to keep their minds sharp,’ he said. ‘I was fortunate enough to grow up living near an uncle who boasts a library of over five thousand volumes. Perhaps you have heard of him? Mr Charles Sansom at Sansom House.’

‘Five thousand books!’ Emma cried, much louder than she intended. ‘That must be a truly amazing sight. Has he any special interests?’

‘Greek and Roman antiquities are a favourite of his, but he has a selection on nearly every topic. Including, I would imagine, botany,’ he said, his smile growing. Emma had never seen him look so young and open before and she unconsciously swayed closer to him. ‘He always let us read whatever we liked when we visited him, though I fear my sister seldom took him up on the offer.’

Emma glanced across the room toward Miss Louisa Marton, who was easy to spot in her elaborately feathered turban. She was talking with her bosom bow, Miss Maude Cole, the beauty of the neighbourhood with her red-gold curls, sky-blue eyes and fine gowns. They in turn were looking back at Emma and whispering behind their fans.

Just like all those silly girls at school had done.

‘I would imagine not,’ Emma murmured. She had never heard Miss Marton or Miss Cole talk of anything but hats or the weather. ‘Does your uncle still live nearby, Sir David? I should so love to meet him one day.’

‘He does, Miss Bancroft, though I fear he has become quite reclusive in his advancing age. He still sometimes purchases volumes at Mr Lorne’s shop, though, so perhaps you will encounter him there one day. He would find you most interesting.’

Before Emma could answer, the orchestra, a local group of musicians more noted for their enthusiasm than their talent, launched into the opening strains of a mazurka.

‘Oh, I do love such a lively dance,’ Jane said. Emma saw that her sister looked towards the forming set with a wistful look on her face. ‘A mazurka was the first dance I—’

Suddenly Jane broke off with a strange little laugh and Emma wondered if she had often danced a mazurka with her husband in London. Surely even though she never mentioned her husband she had to think of him often.

‘Jane...’ Emma began.

Sir David turned to Jane with one of his gentle smiles. ‘Perhaps you would care to dance, Lady Ramsay? My skills at the mazurka are quite rusty, but I would be honoured if you would be my partner.’

For a second, Jane seemed to hesitate, a flash of what looked like temptation in her eyes, and Emma felt an unwelcome pang of jealousy. Jealousy—of Jane! Loathing herself for that feeling, she pushed it away and made herself smile.

‘Oh, no, I fear my dancing days are quite behind me,’ Jane said. ‘But books are not the only thing Emma studied at school. They also had a fine dancing master.’

A horrid dancing master. Emma didn’t like him intruding on every moment of her life like this. Would she ever forget him?

‘Then perhaps Miss Bancroft would do me the honour,’ Sir David said politely. He turned to Emma and half-held out his hand.

And she suddenly longed so much to know what it felt like to have his hand on hers. To be close to him as he led her in the turns and whirls of the dance. Surely he would be strong and steady, never letting her fall, so warm and safe. Maybe he would even smile at her again and those beautiful grey eyes would gleam with admiration as he looked at her. She wanted all those things so very much.

She hadn’t felt such romantic yearnings since—since Mr Milne first arrived at her school. And look at what disasters that led to. No, she couldn’t trust her feelings, her impulsive emotions, ever again.

Emma fell back a step, shaking her head, and Sir David’s hand dropped back to his side. His smile faded and he looked solemn and inscrutable again.

‘I—I don’t care to dance tonight,’ Emma stammered, confused by old memories and new emotions she didn’t understand. She had made a mistake with Mr Milne, a mistake in trusting him and her feelings. She needed to learn how to be cautious and calm, like Jane. Like Sir David.