Page 28 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Fourteen

She was avoiding him.

He was fairly certain that this was the case, for she had, not once, that evening, made eye contact with him. Perhaps she felt guilty for having ruined his cravat—he fingered the embroidery on his cravat, for now that article of clothing had become his favourite—deliberately, no doubt motivated by a petty need for revenge. His valet had been horrified when he’d insisted on wearing it again this morning.

He suppressed a smirk.

Then she’d added salt to his tea instead of sugar, with such abundance that he’d thought he’d taken a sip of the Dead Sea. He’d never had such a horrible mouthful of salt in his life, and he’d almost spat it out all over Miss Cowley’s bodice, only stopping himself at the last moment. His toes had curled up in his boots in the effort to swallow.

He’d spent the entire morning wondering what mischief she’d be up to today, but to his disappointment, she was sitting meekly with his aunts, eyes downcast, playing Whist and, to all appearances, losing spectacularly. He tried to catch her eye, but she stubbornly looked away, ignoring his presence.

Chippendale had spent the entire evening mercilessly roasting him after she’d fled the scene of yesterday’s salt fiasco. He had taken every opportunity to pepper the conversation with references to salt—pointing out that it was a wonderful preservative and joking that the Duke, having been brined inside and out, would undoubtedly outlast them all.

He’d ordered a dish of bubble and squeak for today’s nuncheon, which, his butler had informed him, had so horrified his chef that he’d almost handed in his resignation.

“Monsieur Henri finds it beneath his dignity to cook such a, er, mundane dish and begs you to reconsider today’s menu. His argument is that it is considered a humble repast of the lowest of classes, which renders it quite unworthy of Your Grace’s table, which should be graced with only the finest delicacies,” the butler reported.

“Nonsense,” Wolferton had replied. “Lady Poppy has a craving for that dish, so tell him I expect him to serve it today. Along with crumpets for tea,” he added as an afterthought.

The butler looked at him unhappily. “I beg your pardon, but Monsieur Henri has threatened to resign if he is forced to cook food so far beneath him. If Your Grace could be moved to compromise, perhaps such a terrible event could be averted.”

Under normal circumstances, he would have fired his cook without batting an eyelid, but the Duke was in a strange mood and the whole conversation amused him. “Compromise? How?”

“Have him prepare some of the most challenging French dishes to be served alongside bubble and squeak, Your Grace,” the butler said earnestly. “Such as a lobster souffle, perhaps, and croquembouche—a towering confection of choux pastry filled with cream. My mouth waters just thinking about it, Your Grace. It is such a challenge to prepare that Monsieur Henri will be mollified and more than happy to throw in some bubble and squeak.”

“Then let him, by all means,” Wolferton agreed. The simple nuncheon they were eventually served had far surpassed any state banquet Prinny could ever offer in his Pavilion.

Stuffed full with bubble and squeak, lobster and pastry, the guests were now assembled in the drawing room for coffee and tea.

The ladies crowded around him as they had the day before, vying for his attention. He ignored them all, as he usually did, but interestingly this had the opposite effect as they renewed their efforts to get his attention. The lady with the pointy nose, Miss Cowley, went on and on about Lord knows what, and he threw in an occasional ‘hm’ and ‘huh’ which seemed to satisfy her; another girl in pastel pink had the audacity to tug on his sleeve and demand his attention. When he raised his quizzing glass to her, she blushed a deep red that clashed with her pink outfit. And another, in pastel green, no doubt inspired by Emily the day before, kept insisting on serving him drinks of all kinds, so that he had not only a cup of coffee on the table but also a cup of tea, a glass of liqueur, negus, and a glass of water.

He had an agreement with Chippendale that he would draw some of the ladies away from him, but that rogue was flirting outrageously with Lady Lydia and had no eyes for anyone else.

He studied the sister dispassionately. Emily wanted him to marry her. The girl—Cecily was her real name—was indeed uncommonly beautiful, and her manners were pretty. But there was a reserve about her, even as she flirted with Chippendale, a shell that kept everyone at a distance. The lady was clearly in no danger of losing her heart to him; he decided. Chippendale, the eternal bachelor, was in no danger of getting caught up in any kind of marital ambitions. And neither was he.

His eyes wandered back to Emily, watching as she leaned forward to throw a card, a strand of her hair escaping from her bun and falling across her cheek. His fingers itched to reach out and feel the downy softness of her cheek. As though she could read his thoughts, she tucked it behind her ear and began to chew on her lower lip.

He watched, fascinated.

Something stirred deep inside him.

It was an aching longing in the region of his heart.

A tender little flame he thought he’d long forgotten.

In the nick of time, he prevented his hand from moving to cover his heart. The surrounding ladies would have been beside themselves if they’d known that the Devil Duke was suffering from a rather severe case of infatuation.

An infatuation that had lasted far too long for his liking.

Yes, that was it. It was utterly fleeting and meaningless, this feeling, this unbearable longing that had taken root in his heart. It was all too familiar.

Once upon a time, he’d thought it was love.

His hand trembled as he reached for his wineglass, which he downed in one gulp. Where had this absurd idea come from?

Love, indeed. He snorted. He’d long since outgrown fanciful notions of love and affection, although there had been a time when he’d believed in the sentiment, back in his salad days, when he’d been a moon-eyed romantic and green behind the ears. Surely it had been youthful infatuation, nothing more, back then—as it must be now.

Dash it all to hell and back. Hadn’t he sworn to himself that he would never, ever, ever again allow himself to feel this way?

He scowled, and the pastel green girl’s face sank, no doubt thinking it was in response to her shyly stammered question of whether he would like her to bring him another cup of coffee.

This was intolerable! He was bored out of his wits in this company of pastel petticoats. He would march to his aunts that very evening and beg them to put an end to it.

Only he knew what they would say. They’d only do that, they’d told him firmly already, if he chose one of them as his bride. Even his Aunt Mabel, usually so soft and gentle, had a resolute set to her mouth when it came to the matter and steadfastly refused to yield.

They wanted a bride?

Well, they would have one.

He narrowed his eyes to slits and his gaze wandered over the heads of the guests to Emily once more.

Just then she raised hers, and their eyes met.

Finally.

His breath caught.

How could just meeting her gaze make him feel like he was breathing in fresh air and drowning in a stormy sea at the same time?

There was a sombre expression on her face and a question in her beautiful brown eyes.

Then a look of determination crossed her features. She said a few words to his aunts, put the cards down, rose and made her way across the room to him.

Quite illogically, his pulse began to quicken. The grip on his glass tightened.

She stopped just outside the circle of women surrounding him. “May I have a moment of your time, Your Grace?” she said stiffly.

Heads turned, and more than one lady pulled a face.

He raised an eyebrow. “Certainly. If you will give us a moment.” He looked pointedly at the ladies, who reluctantly withdrew. “Now, Lady Poppy.” He deliberately emphasised the ‘Lady’ and watched in fascination as it caused her lips to purse for a moment. “How can I help you?”

She clasped her hands in front of her stomach. “I confess I was a little surprised to discover that George the coachman turned out to be the Duke of Wolferton. I hope you enjoyed your little charade.” She lifted her chin proudly as if to indicate she did not care in the least.

So she finally wanted to talk about the elephant in the room. It was about time. He placed his glass on the mantelpiece and turned to face her.

“Ah. Yes. I did.” He curled his lips into a smile. “It was amusing, in a way. It was entirely unplanned, though.” He looked at her searchingly. “I was testing my new horses when you approached, mistaking me for my coachman. It was never my intention to deliberately deceive you.”

“Yet you never corrected the misunderstanding when we met later outside the stables.”

“Hm. No, I suppose I didn’t.”

“Why?” She tilted her head to the side, making her look like a confused little bird.

A soft smile played across his lips. “To keep you under my roof, perhaps?”

Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed. “You're full of contradictions, Your Grace.”

She took a step forward and lowered her voice. To any onlooker it would have appeared as though she was flirting outrageously with him. “First, you have us evicted, now you want to keep us under your roof. There is no rhyme and reason to your behaviour at all, is there?”

Now he was in a quandary. What should he say? The truth? What exactly was the truth? He hardly knew it himself. That he’d planned this all along? He had, hadn’t he? That he would keep her here until he was certain of one thing, and one thing only? It was probably not a good idea to reveal that. Not yet.

She continued to talk. “We are grateful for your hospitality, of course, but all things considered, I think it best for my sister and I to continue with our plans to travel to Scotland.” She lifted her chin with stubborn determination.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked at her through hooded eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Her heart beat in loud, heavy thumps. “Wh-why?”

“Because... ” He wrestled with how to phrase it. “It’s the right thing to do.”

She knitted her brows and tilted her head. “Right thing to do?”

He huffed. “You look like a confused little bird when you do that.”

Emily blinked. “Do I?”

“I want you to stay here as my guest,” he continued. “You need not fear any exposure. I will not reveal your identity. You have my word.”

“Why?”

The silence between them was heavy and charged. “Give me a chance to make amends,” he said heavily. “Please.”

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted, then closed again as if she were searching for words. It was clear she understood what he referred to.

Just at that moment, Miss Cowley returned to stand beside him, placing her hand on his arm in a rather possessive manner.

He disliked the woman and resisted the urge to shake off her hand, but for the moment he was rather relieved that she had interrupted.

She looked from one to the other. “Such a weighty discussion, Your Grace? How fascinating. Careful now, or tongues might wag that you’re about to be leg-shackled by a clever lady.”

A flush of pink spread across Emily's cheeks. “Far from it,” she stammered.

Why did this reaction irritate instead of relieve him?

Miss Cowley threw her a baleful glance. “I didn’t think so, in truth.” She turned to Jasper with a pout. “Perhaps a little dance could be arranged if we had some piano music?” Her eyes travelled to Emily. “Do you play the piano, Lady Poppy?”

“Indifferently.” She shrugged.

“Surely your skill must be sufficient to play a few tunes for us to dance?” She smiled at him.

“Oh yes, let’s dance,” Lord Willowthorpe’s daughters chimed in almost in unison.

“I don’t think so,” he exclaimed in alarm. The last thing he wanted was to prance about the stuffy drawing room, trapped with a gaggle of ladies eager to sink their claws into him. He’d be forced to dance with all of them, for if he danced with just one, it would be interpreted as a clear preference.

Not that it wasn’t true.

But the one lady he preferred was staring daggers at him at the moment, and a quick mental calculation told him that the chances of her accepting if he asked her to dance were zero. Maybe even less than that.

“Really, how churlish of you, Wolferton,” Araminta exclaimed. “It would be nice to see the young people dance.”

“Good decision,” Chippendale murmured to himself. “We will be besieged by the ladies, there being only four of us men,” he counted, “to eleven women. We would be well advised to save our enthusiasm for dancing for the ball later in the week, when we have some reinforcements,” he said to the room.

Wolferton gave him a grateful look. “That’s certainly an argument,” he put in, “but my reason for declining is that I’m not in the mood for dancing.” He nodded to Emily. “I’d rather hear Lady Poppy sing.”

Heads turned and Emily squirmed at the attention.

“Oho. Yes. Now that’s an idea.” Araminta lifted her quizzing glass and pointed it at her. “Lady Poppy. If you please.” Aunt Jane rose, took her hand and led her to the piano.

“I really, really don’t want to sing,” he heard Emily hiss at her.

“Fiddlesticks. Now, who will accompany you?”

In the end, it was Lady Lydia who sat down at the piano to accompany her.

Emily sang several folk songs and a more complicated one, pointedly avoiding looking in his direction.

Then she sang that song, that one song that made him want to cry like a little child.

It was a simple lullaby, a folk song that his mother had also sung to him. He was flooded with memories of a woman whose face he had long forgotten.

He reached for his wineglass again, if only to distract himself, but he did not drink. His fingers clenched the glass so tightly that it would undoubtedly break if he increased the pressure.

“I must say, you have a very fine voice,” Lady Willowthorpe said grudgingly after she finished the song. “Exceptionally sweet and clear.”

“Reminds me of that opera singer we heard the other night,” Chippendale chimed in. “What was her name? The Italian one. Lady Poppy sings at least as well, if not better.”

“Like a nightingale or a lark,” said Mabel softly.

“Now, none of the rest of us dare sing, for our voices will be unflatteringly compared to yours,” the pink Willowthorpe girl complained.

“Well. Now that we can’t dance or sing, how about some parlour games?” Miss Ingleton put in.

“What a marvellous idea!” The ladies flocked to him again, surrounding him. “Shall we play The Game of Sighs, or even better, The Don’t Laugh game? Oh, please, Your Grace.”

Lady Lydia rose. “I beg you not to be offended if I excuse myself. I confess I’m rather tired and I’d rather not overexert myself while my foot is still healing,” she explained to the room at large.

He didn’t miss the quick look of gratitude that Emily shot her sister.

“I will accompany you,” she announced. Of course, Emily had to escort her sister back to her room. Coward.

With a sinking feeling of disappointment, he watched her say goodbye and gracefully leave the room.

It would be a tediously long evening without her.