The Wanton Bride

Emily commenced spreading blackberries on to her toast, saying, ‘Mrs Bond might be getting on in years, but she seemed to me to be in robust health and, in an odd way, I quite liked her.’

When Penelope heard that, her chin sagged towards her bosom.

‘Oh, come, Mama, you must admit Augusta has a certain lively spirit, and she plays a mean hand of piquet. Papa lost a crown to her.’

Penelope snapped together her lips. ‘And that compensates for her insults? How dare she speak so! You are a beauty in your prime.’

‘She said nothing that was not true.’ Emily took a fond glance at her mother from under long brunette lashes. Penelope had long harboured hopes that a knight in shining armour would carry her only daughter off to his Mayfair mansion and a life of untold luxury. Emily’s eyes shaded wistfully. The knave had tarried too long. Her mother was on the point of urging Emily to settle for Mr Bond and a villa in Putney. Emily pushed away her plate and wiped crumbs from her slender fingers. ‘You know I’m too old to successfully compete with the débutantes for a husband. And I do actually take after Papa’s side of the family. The miniature of Grandmama Beaumont could be my likeness.’

‘And what about Augusta’s appalling insensitive remarks about your aborted betrothal?’

‘She did not know of it, Mama, I’m sure. She simply asked if I had received any marriage proposals.’

‘I’ll wager she did know of it and was out to be provocative,’ Penelope snorted in muted outrage. ‘Dreadful woman! You might have again burst into tears over it all.’

‘I have not burst into tears over it all for a long while,’ Emily said softly. ‘And I promise I will never do so again. As for Augusta, I think she genuinely knew nothing about it. She lives in the country and the scandal was not so great.’ She paused before reciting, ‘When Tarquin Beaumont gave Viscount Devlin a beating, thereby ruining his sister’s chance of happiness with the Viscount, I imagine it got scant mention in Bath drawing rooms. The gossip in London lasted barely a week, thank heavens.’

‘It was only so soon forgot because that hussy Olivia Davidson ran off with her sister’s husband and set all the cats’ tongues wagging.’

‘And how grateful I was for poor Miss Davidson’s disgrace,’ Emily reminisced wryly. ‘I still feel a little guilty when I see Olivia’s sour face,’ she added.

‘It’s her own fault she’s ostracised by everyone, including her own kin. Silly fool should have known he’d slink home with his tail between his legs and it would all end in tears.’ Penelope flapped a hand. ‘Oh, enough about them! We were talking of your fiasco. I still say you acted too proud and too hasty, Emily. You should have married the Viscount, you know.’

‘Indeed?’ Emily gave a sour little laugh. ‘Nicholas had made it clear by then he regretted an association with our family. I had no intention of binding him to his word and having a husband who might grow to despise me.’

Penelope waved that away, but her further arguments were immediately interrupted.

‘We have been through this before and I refuse to rake it all over again. It is done with.’ The grit in Emily’s tone was at odds with the easy smile she gave her mother. Gracefully she rose from the dining table and went to the window. ‘I am going out early today. Madame Joubert has some fine new silk…’

‘I’ll come too. I need some buttons—’

‘No.’ Emily realised she had declined the offer of her mother’s company far too abruptly. Penelope looked rather taken aback, so she hastened to say, ‘I was going to find something nice for your birthday. It won’t be a surprise if you come too.’

Penelope flushed in pleasure and murmured, ‘Oh, I see…’

Emily felt a little guilty at the excuse, though she had not told a lie. She would call in to the modiste’s on Regent Street and would find her mama something special for her birthday. Nevertheless, her real reason for going early abroad this morning was to keep her rendezvous on Whiting Street with the person who had sent the note. And she had certainly no intention of letting her mother in on that.

Penelope Beaumont could become disproportionately agitated over a trifling upset. If a storm was about to break over Tarquin’s debts, it would be prudent to shield her from the worst of it for as long as possible.

‘Mr Bond is here, ma’am.’ Millie had slipped into the room to announce they had a visitor.

Penelope frowned—it was hardly yet the hour to be receiving callers. She gave her daughter a quizzical look.

‘I expect he has come to apologise for his grandmother’s blunt manner.’ Emily gestured that she had no objection to seeing him.

‘We will receive him in the parlour, Millie,’ Penelope told the young maidservant.

Once in the parlour, and in the company of their diffident guest, Mrs Beaumont proceeded to pour tea while Emily and Mr Bond made polite observations on the vagaries of spring weather. Stephen was handed his cup and saucer and accepted the invitation to sit down whereupon, without preamble, he set about doing his duty.

‘I must apologise for calling on you so early but I wasn’t sure…that is to say…’ His eyes darted between the two ladies as though searching for assistance. He cleared his throat and blurted, ‘I wanted to again thank you for such fine hospitality yesterday and to make sure that you had not…been perturbed by my grandmother’s blunt manner.’

Stephen glanced at Penelope Beaumont. Something in her expression caused him to quickly add, ‘My grandmother does not intend to upset people, but she can be rather too outspoken.’ He took a gulp from his tea, then clattered the cup down to rest.

‘Does she not understand that being too outspoken is likely to upset people?’ Penelope asked stiffly.

Stephen coloured and coughed. ‘I don’t think she does, ma’am. But if you thought any of her remarks offensive I will, of course, unreservedly apologise on her behalf.’

Emily put her tea down on a side table and kindly said, ‘I thought your grandmama was quite a character. I enjoyed meeting her.’ Emily’s smile turned wry as Stephen looked most surprised to hear that. ‘If Mrs Bond is not soon returning to Bath, you must introduce her to Mrs Pearson.’ Emily sent her mother a twinkling look. ‘Do you not think, Mama, that Violet Pearson might benefit from an acquaintance with Stephen’s grandmother?’

Finally that morning Emily had drawn a twitch of amusement from her mother.

‘Do take another cup, Mr Bond,’ Penelope urged amiably and advanced with the pot.

Emily checked the wall clock and stood up. She needed to be on her way if she was to keep her appointment. ‘I’m going out shopping, but do stay and finish tea,’ she added as Stephen leaped to his feet.

‘I’ll gladly give you a ride,’ Stephen volunteered eagerly, raking his fingers through his springy blond curls. ‘Actually I ought to be getting along too. I have an appointment in Holborn.’

‘I accept your kind offer, in that case,’ Emily said.

Despite his noticeably wonky nose, it was not the fellow’s looks that drew Emily’s attention, but his manner. He had the demeanour of a person oblivious to the fact that he was under observation. Back and forth he strutted beneath the brass balls of the pawnbroker’s shop, every so often peering at the passing carts with obvious disappointment. Then, a few yards away, a hackney cab pulled up at the kerb. That sent the fellow darting into the shop doorway, only to reappear a moment later when a stout gentleman alighted from the vehicle and purposefully bowled off up the street.

Emily guessed he had been expecting to catch sight of her before she noticed him. Doubtless he imagined she would arrive at the pawnbroker’s in a vehicle rather than on foot. But Emily had not wanted to be quizzed by Stephen over why she was to be set down in an area so lacking fashionable shops. Instead, she had asked him to deliver her to a salubrious part of town that was within easy striking distance of Whiting Street. Having first declined Stephen’s offer to meet her later to take her home, she had then watched his rig turn the corner before briskly walking east.

It was a fine spring morning, but chilly gusts of wind made her keep her cloak pulled tight about her. She again sent a discreet look across Whiting Street at the fellow she was sure had sent her the note.

Although his burly figure didn’t intimidate her, she did feel nervous. This was an area generally populated by gentlemen. They came to these premises to meet their men of business and pore over contracts and unintelligible papers. A lone female loitering about was likely to incite curiosity. Emily knew that her own papa often had assignments on this street with his attorney. Fervently she prayed that he had not arranged a meeting with Mr Pritchard today.

‘Emily? Emily Beaumont?’

That cultured voice, once so well known to her, made Emily freeze, then pivot slowly about.

Viscount Devlin had been about to get into a crested carriage, but now he hesitated and sauntered, with much use of his ebony cane, along the pavement towards her.

Emily had wondered how she would feel if ever she and this man were to meet, alone. Of course, since the end of their betrothal many years ago, they had met socially. But that had been in polite company when they both were mindful of etiquette and speculative stares.

Notwithstanding the fact that Emily knew the love of her life was now a husband and prospective father—for she had heard that his wife was increasing before Augusta mentioned it—she wondered if the Viscount’s roguish charm would still impress her. The closer he came, the more she feared the potency of his attraction. He was still youthfully good looking and could have passed for a man half a decade younger than his thirty-one years. His fair hair was artfully dishevelled and his hazel eyes warm as they settled on her face.

‘Are you waiting for your father?’ he asked, surprise leavening his tone, as he took a glance along the street. Emily imagined he expected to spy Mr Beaumont emerging from a nearby portal.

‘No…I’m not,’ Emily answered too quickly and truthfully. She sought for an excuse for her odd presence on Whiting Street. But she need not have worried over any further interrogation from the Viscount—he now seemed distracted by her small tongue as it trailed moisture over her full pink lips.

Emily felt her heart begin to race beneath his languid appraisal. The heat smouldering in his eyes brought instantly to mind images of things they had done together that she thought she had buried deep in her past. A burst of knowledge brought with it a guilty exhilaration: Viscount Devlin still desired her.

‘When was it that last we met?’ the Viscount asked huskily, his tawny eyes moving to her body. ‘It must have been a year ago. I swear that every time I see you, Emily, you have grown more lovely.’

Emily sensed her heart increase tempo, but flashed him a cool look from silver eyes. ‘And I swear, sir, that I think you must be still recovering from a night of roistering to say such a thing to me.’

‘Can I not compliment you?’ he asked gravely. ‘Why are you so prickly, Emily? Has the hurt not yet healed?’