Page 24 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Twelve

“Your Gr-grace?” She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. When she finally managed to utter a few words, it sounded more like a helpless croak.

Wolferton merely raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling up, as if he couldn’t decide whether he was amused or not. “Lady Poppy Featherstone,” he drawled, emphasising the word ‘lady’. “It’s a pleasure.” He spoke as if they hadn’t met that morning, walking side by side through the forest, stuffing their mouths with crumpets.

The words of that last conversation hung palpably between them.

Emily stared at him, pale, mouth half open.

His gaze pierced her very soul.

“But what is this? Is that some sort of writing on your cravat?” Lady Dalrymple pointed her quizzing glass at his neck.

“I’m told it’s the latest fashion,” the Duke replied with a lazy lilt, his words dripping with indifference as he never once broke eye contact with Emily, who had blushed a deep scarlet. “And as Chippendale says, one must always be fashionable, no matter how eccentric.”

“Peacock of Pomp,” Hamish read and laughed. “How charming. Is this some sort of joke?”

“If it is, it is entirely at my expense, Hamish.” A flicker of a smile flitted across Wolferton’s stern features, softening them. “It’s good to have you and Miss Ingleton here.” He leaned elegantly over Hamish’s sister’s hand, all gentlemanly. “The last time I saw you, I think you were in your leading strings.”

Miss Ingleton simpered.

As Wolferton continued to make the rounds, greeting everyone, Emily’s brain began to steam and she could barely make sense of the flood of conflicting emotions that were washing over her.

Betrayal. Humiliation. Anger. All moulded together in a hot, tight ball that settled in the pit of her stomach, where it festered.

George was the duke.

George was the duke.

Zounds. George was the duke!

The things she’d said to him!

The names she’d called him! She’d accused him of being a murderer, to his face. She’d told him her whole sad story.

That would explain why he’d behaved so strangely.

But why had he done it? Why had he pretended to be a coachman? Why had he deceived her like that?

Heavens above! A sickening feeling shot through her. Speaking of deception. It was the other way around, too: he knew she was deceiving him right now.

He knew she wasn’t Lady Poppy!

He knew she was a liar and an impostor, here under false pretences to trick him into marrying Cissy. He knew everything.

He could expose her publicly at any moment and ruin any present and future plans she and Cissy had. If he wished, he could ruin them so thoroughly that they would never be seen in society again. It would be a scandal beyond anything she’d ever imagined.

Her heart began to pound painfully and her hands grew hot.

Emily looked at Cissy in panic.

Cissy, however, remained calm. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled up at him. “Please forgive me for not rising, Your Grace. Although my ankle is healing, the doctor has told me not to put any weight on it yet to prevent a relapse. My sister and I are truly grateful for your kind hospitality.”

Her speech was very beautiful. She seemed completely calm. Emily gaped at her. Cissy had known! But how? Why? Why hadn’t she told her? Why wasn’t she worried?

And look at him! He actually smiled at her. It was an authentic smile, not the sneer he’d given her. “Lady Lydia. It is a pleasure to have you here. Please make yourself at home and stay as long as you like.”

Emily, who’d been speechless before, was now struck dumb.

He was a devil indeed.

The dandy, who turned out to be Lord Chippendale, whom she had mistaken for the Duke, stepped forward with a beam. “Excellent words, Wolferton. I must say, for a first house party, you’ve outdone yourself with such lovely guests.” He reached out to kiss Cissy's hand. “It will be my pleasure to escort you to the dining room.” He looked deep into her eyes.

Cissy blushed. “That won’t be necessary, my lord. I have a footman who will assist me.”

Lord Hamish joined them, and now Cissy was surrounded by the most eligible bachelors in the country.

Not unusual, Emily had to admit, but a little annoying, yes.

Cissy smiled serenely.

“Cucumbers,” Emily said stupidly.

She’d said it a bit too loudly. Heads turned, and she flushed painfully.

Admittedly, she didn’t know why she’d said it. It must have been in response to something her dinner partner, Lord Hamish, had said to her, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what he had just said.

Not with coachman George—sorry, His Grace—staring at her so awfully as if he were about to pounce on her at any moment. She toyed with her boeuf aux champignons, wondering what he’d do to her if he had the chance.

Throw her in the dungeon, perhaps.

Which was nonsense. As far as she knew, Ashbourne House had no dungeons; it wasn’t a medieval castle.

There was a priest’s hole somewhere, though, of that much she was certain. Rumour had it that a previous duke had hidden his priests there during the Reformation. She couldn’t quite remember how the story turned out, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it ended with that duke forgetting the priest. There would merely be a skeleton left to tell the tale. Poor priest. Hopefully the current duke hadn’t entertained a similar notion and decided to test the priest hole—with her.

Emily swallowed.

Of course that was all nonsense, but by Hera’s petticoats, what was she to do? She was hot and uncomfortable and it felt like a million ants were crawling all over her body.

There, again! Their eyes had met anew. He was most definitely staring across the entire length of the supper table, over magnificent candelabras and an entire wretched swan gracing its middle, stuffed with apples and oranges amidst an elaborate arrangement of flowers and fondant. It was quite barbaric, and Emily would have lost her appetite, if she’d had any to begin with.

She tore her eyes away hastily and chewed and chewed on her beef, which seemed to have turned into a piece of leather and was growing in her mouth. She swallowed, and it almost stuck in her throat. Coughing, she took a sip of wine.

That didn’t help either, because she needed to keep a clear head. The more wine she drank, the more dizzy she became. And the more nonsense she talked.

Which was no doubt why she’d blurted out something as inane as ‘cucumbers’ when Hamish asked her what she thought of the scenery in this area.

The corners of Hamish’s mouth twitched. “Cucumbers. Not exactly a staple crop for most farmers as they are extremely difficult to grow. I’d know, I’m a bit of a gardener myself.”

Emily blinked at him.

“Interesting how you associate the countryside with cucumbers,” he mused.

Emily’s eyes wandered to Wolferton, and she seemed to detect a faint sneer crossing his face, but it was so quick that she might have imagined it.

She sat up straight as if stung by an adder. “I was merely expressing my relief at the fact that this climate is such that growing such vegetables as cucumbers must be extremely difficult.”

“You most definitely don’t seem to like cucumbers,” Hamish remarked.

“I detest them,” Emily said, glaring at the Duke.

By the time they were served pudding—which took a good while, as they were served five courses over several hours, including the excellent syllabub that Emily would have usually enjoyed, but could not in that moment—the indignation in her grew as the realisation finally set in that there were two sides to the knife.

Certainly, he knew she was an impostor.

But he, too, had posed as someone other than he really was.

He too had deceived her.

He’d mocked her.

He’d made a fool of her.

He’d betrayed her.

He’d played with her.

Emily was not usually slow-witted, but this realisation took its time sinking in. When it did, a hot wave of anger rolled through her, and she gripped her spoon until her knuckles were white.

Lord Hamish, her dining companion, didn’t seem to notice. He was happily talking about hunting. “Pheasants are such peculiar birds—they would rather run for cover than fly, only taking to the air as a last resort. My dogs are excellent at flushing them out.”

“Indeed,” Emily replied mechanically, spooning the syllabub into her mouth without tasting it.

“I average six brace a season.”

“Hm.”

“That’s not such an impressive number when you think about it,” Hamish added cheerfully. “After all, a brace is only one male and one female. Did you know that Wolferton once shot nearly a hundred in a single week?”

“Wolferton?” Emily’s head snapped up. Her eyes met his at the head of the table. He was leaning back in his chair, a finger idly tracing the rim of his wineglass, his eyes fixed on her, dark with an emotion she could not identify. Was it desire? Irritation? Suspicion?

A shiver ran up her spine, down her arms and into her fingers.

Shaking, she tore her eyes away and took a sip of wine.

“Not to belittle the prowess of our esteemed host, Hamish,” Lord Willowthorpe interjected with a grin, “but rumour has it that King George shot 300 in a week at Windsor.”

“He didn’t,” Wolferton replied, his voice steady. “The best he did was 150. And for the record, I shot 100 brace. That’s 200 fowls.”

“That’s an awful lot of fowl to eat,” Emily muttered. She turned to Hamish. “Imagine the amount of fowl pie, fowl stew, fowl soup—not to mention braised fowl, roast fowl, boiled fowl—you’d have to consume with that number. I’d start dreaming about fowl.”

Hamish grinned. “You don’t sound overly fond of fowl in addition to cucumbers.”

“I’m not.” Emily dipped her spoon into the syllabub, splashing cream onto the tablecloth. She dabbed at the stain with her napkin. “I don’t like to eat anything with feathers. Especially when you think it’s chicken, and it turns out to be partridge. It masquerades as something other than what it is.” She shot an icy glance at the head of the table. A muscle in Wolferton’s face twitched, betraying that he’d heard her.

Hamish chuckled. “Yet you’ve just finished an entire second course of pheasant without complaint. I think I even handed you the plate for a second helping.”

Emily’s spoon stopped in mid-air. “Did I?” she asked weakly, her cheeks warming. She hadn’t tasted a bite. She’d been too busy thinking dark thoughts about the Duke.

“Must we discuss the hunt at the table?” Lady Jane interjected with a sharp look. “With the ladies present, no less?”

“Yes, let’s talk about the ball instead. There is to be a ball here, is there not, Your Grace?” Miss Pastel Pink turned to the Duke. Somehow, she sounded even more girlish than she was.

Emily, for the life of her, could not remember her name.

“Oh yes, a ball, please,” the other ladies chimed in, clapping their hands.

Cissy and Emily exchanged glances. A ball would be a problem as neither of them owned a ball gown. They had simply not expected there to be such an occasion. Not to mention that their current finances would not have allowed them to buy such a dress, not to mention all the accessories such as shoes, gloves, fans, feathers, ribbons, laces...

Maybe we should just leave, flashed through Emily’s mind. Perhaps that was the wisest course of action. This Duke was up to no good; he was far too dangerous, watching her every move with his hawk eyes, and Emily was on tenterhooks. Any minute now he could reveal that she was not Lady Poppy but plain Meggie Blythe, a lowly servant.

She shifted tensely in her chair.

“A ball might be just the thing,” Lady Dalrymple chimed in. “Especially now that the ballroom has been redecorated. You can’t imagine the state it was in. This house hasn’t been lived in since my father bought it nearly fifty years ago. Unfortunately, he never took to it, nor did the old duke, Wolferton’s father. My sisters and I have enjoyed spending a summer here now and then, for the air is excellent, as is the surrounding countryside. It would be the first time in well over a century that a ball would be held here. I would say it is about time.”

They could leave first thing in the morning. Cissy’s ankle was well enough and there was a coach to Scotland leaving from the inn. Walking there would be a problem. Emily was annoyed that the Duke was not the coachman, as that would have made their departure much easier. She could have simply asked him to do them a favour and drive them to the inn. George, the coachman, would certainly have done that. Not that that would have made any sense, because then they wouldn’t have had to leave in the first place.

Emily sighed. Her mind was muddled, and she had difficulty thinking straight.

She looked up.

Why was he still staring at her with those narrow, calculating eyes? Like a cat watching a mouse, ready to pounce.

Perhaps she had a speck of syllabub on her nose. She rubbed it self-consciously, just in case.

Then she noticed something worse. Everyone else was staring at her, too.

A prickling heat climbed up her neck as silence fell over the table. She glanced helplessly at Hamish, who turned towards her with an amused twinkle in his eye.

“What?” she mouthed.

“His Grace has just announced that it is up to you whether there is a ball,” he said, barely suppressing a grin.

Emily’s head snapped back to the Duke. “Why on earth would that be?”

“Because,” Lady Dalrymple interjected smoothly, “you were planning to depart in two days, weren’t you? That would be prior to the ball. Yet without you, there won’t be enough ladies to partner the gentlemen.”

Emily’s brow furrowed. “Forgive me, but by my count there are currently nine ladies to four gentlemen. That seems more than adequate.”

“Not if you include the officers of the militia stationed nearby,” the Duke said, his tone maddeningly calm. “All the officers would be invited, which would leave us with a surplus of gentlemen. I will only invite them if they are guaranteed dance partners. The decision is yours.”

“Oh, stay Lady Poppy!” Miss Pastel Blue urged. “It would be so nice to have a ball.”

Emily hesitated, her mind racing. It wasn’t a good idea. They had no ballroom dresses, no experience of high society balls and far too many secrets to keep. The Duke was bound to expose them—and then there would be a scandal.

Cissy looked at her pleadingly. Hamish watched expectantly. And the Duke—confound him—looked as devilish as ever, with that faint, knowing smile playing about his lips.

Her head hurt. When would this infernal dinner party end?

“Oh, very well,” she said irritably.

There was a sigh of relief around the table.

The Duke raised his wineglass and took a measured sip, his dark gaze lingering on her. For a moment, Emily thought she saw a flicker of relief in his eyes—but surely, it must be her imagination.