Page 38 of Lady Like

The morning of the Milton Derby dawns overcast and damp.

Dew sits on the grass like a skin on cold soup, and the gray light turns the Downs flat.

In the stands, Emily and Violet huddle together against the unexpected chill, both fooled by the late spring date into thinking a shawl was unnecessary.

Martin had been dressed and ready to accompany them that morning, apparently making good on his threat to observe their outings, though he crossed paths with friends on the way to their seats and let Violet and Emily go ahead on their own.

At least horse races are an acceptable outing.

Had he been home the night of Macbeth and insisted on accompanying them, Emily’s claims of propriety would have been on shaky ground.

“Perhaps the punch is being served mulled,” Violet says, and Emily takes it upon herself to find out.

It is refreshment only that she goes searching for, she assures herself, and not Harry.

The race is overdue to start, the flag held for half an hour in hopes the sun might appear.

The riders are sequestered with their mounts in the stables, and Emily wonders if she might possibly find her way there before the start.

To wish Harry luck, but more than that—she wants to explain what happened with Mariah.

Or rather, that nothing had happened. Emily had slept on the sofa and let herself out the next morning before Mariah even woke.

She had gotten a cab back to Violet’s and spent every moment since wondering if Mariah is right, and Harry is in love with her.

And, more important, if she is in love with Harry.

It has been a week since the night of the play, and they haven’t spoken.

It is their longest stretch apart since the Majorbanks’s ball.

Emily has begun writing a half dozen cards to send to Harry, but can never find the right way to ask, Can we discuss Mariah’s queer notion that you are in love with me?

What tone was one meant to adopt for such a missive—casual, but urgent, neither too asinine nor too sincere?

In the end, Emily gave up. She would see Harry at the race, she had told herself, and balled up her final attempt before tossing it into the fire. They would talk then.

But now here she is at the race, in the yellow dress Harry dreamed up for her, and she can’t find how to get to the stables, and knowing Harry is here but not with her this moment is making Emily break out in hives.

She is stopped upon the path running the length of the track when she hears someone call her name.

For a delirious moment, she thinks it’s Harry, but turns to find Alexander Bolton, Duke of Rochester, peeling himself from a conversation and coming toward her.

Not now, she thinks as she bobs a quick curtsy.

But then Alexander takes her hand and Emily seems to wake up to herself, because oh blast—it’s him. The person she’s supposedly here for. And yet she doesn’t have time for him because she has to find Harry.

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” Rochester says.

“But mistake me not—your presence is most welcome.” He kisses her knuckles, and she notices him give her dress a second look—once when he bends, and again when he stands.

“You look well, ” Rochester says, the word heavy with intention, and goddamn Harriet Lockhart, Emily thinks with a secret smile. Riotous dandelion indeed.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Truly, you look…” He takes a step back, still holding her hand, and for a moment, Emily thinks he will ask her to twirl so he can see her from every angle. “Somewhat changed since I last saw you.”

“I feel somewhat changed,” Emily replies. “London has been good for me.”

“Evidently. You may be the first person to ever find their health improved by time in the city.”

“I will be cheering on your Matthew Mark Luke and John from the stands,” Emily says. Then, she adds like the idea has just occurred to her and is of no urgency, “Have you seen Miss Lockhart this morning?”

“No, my arrival was delayed and now I’m too late to wish her luck!” He indicates the track, and Emily turns to see the riders beginning to assemble on the track. Blast. No chance to talk to Harry now.

“Matthew looks fine, does he not?” Rochester adjusts the brim of his hat as he casts an appraising glance over the horses. “See how his coat shines in the sun.”

“Indeed, my lord. I’ve already put money on him.”

“Have you really?”

“I read his statistics and find him the most likely winner.” She pushes a strand of hair from her eyes, and watches as his eyes follow her gloved hand.

Emily touches her neck, along the sweep Harry had promised the dress so highlighted.

Rochester’s eyes follow her fingers, and God, does he actually wet his lips?

Emily almost laughs. Surely it cannot be so easy.

“Paddington has the longer stride,” the duke says.

“But Matthew a higher jump.”

“And the superior jockey, wouldn’t you agree?”

Emily feels her face color— does he know?

Someone whistles on the track, and Rochester seems to wake from his reverie.

“Have you been to Almack’s yet?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“They hold public balls there on the full moon—anyone can attend, so they crowd quickly. But the music is very good. I’ll be in attendance next Saturday. Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

“You will, my lord.”

“Then we can finally have that dance,” he says, eyes flashing. “So long as Harry allows me a space on your card this time. The two of you have become so close.”

“Not that close,” Emily says quickly and possibly too loudly.

“I wonder.” He puts on a show of consideration. “Has she told you of her parentage?”

Is this some sort of test? Or is he asking because it’s unknown to him?

Emily had assumed Harry and Alexander were close enough friends—and the duke liberal minded enough—that Harry would have shared her mother’s profession with him.

Certainly if Harry shared it with Emily, Rochester would have been taken into confidence. “What specifically about it, my lord?”

“The terms, mostly.”

“Terms?” Emily frowns. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Rochester swipes off his top hat, presses down his hair with the flat of his hand, then replaces it. “Mr. Lockhart had asked me for some advice on land management. And I wasn’t aware…”

Again he trails off, looking at Emily as though waiting for him to finish the sentence or intuit his cryptic meaning, but Emily just stares back blankly.

At the Majorbanks’s ball, when they first met, she had thought Harry a rival for Alexander’s affection, and it occurs to her now that if she really wants insurance against their pairing, she could tell Alexander what she knows about Harry’s mother, as he seems not to know.

Alexander might find Emily herself more interesting for her proximity to—but not direct implication in—purchasable company, and he’d see her allegiances lie with him, not Harry.

After all, it’s him she’s going to marry.

But what would be the point of that, besides humiliating Harry? An idea that once would have been appealing to Emily now leaves her cold.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Emily says. “If you want more details, perhaps you could ask her yourself.”

“Yes, I think I might do just that.” A bell clangs on the track, and Alexander glances to the riders. “Will you excuse me please, Miss Sergeant? The race is about to begin.”

“Of course.”

“But I’ll see you next Saturday at Almack’s.”

“I look forward to it, my lord.”

“You should…” And here he casts a hand up and down her frame. His eyes again linger along her neckline. “Dress like this more often.”

He strides away, but not before turning to give her one more appraising glance, and Emily thinks how giddy she should feel, while feeling it not at all.

By the time Emily returns to the stands, Martin has rejoined Violet and their bench feels overcrowded.

Bright pins of sunlight are poking through the clouds, glancing across the backs of the riders waiting on the starting line.

The horses paw at the ground as the race official climbs to his box.

Emily tries to convince herself she is giving all the riders an equal glance, going down the line in order, rather than specifically seeking out Harry.

When she finds her, Emily’s heart…well, she had been expecting some kind of thrill, the same way she has felt every time in recent memory she has seen Harry, the antithesis of the awe Rochester failed to inspire in her.

But Harry is shifting in her saddle, and Emily finds the hair on the back of her neck rising.

Has she ever seen Harry so obviously uneasy while riding?

Harry adjusts Matthew’s bridle, then reaches behind to tug the strap of her saddle, turning forward only to twist back again.

Something has disturbed her—Emily is sure of it.

Or, Emily reminds herself, perhaps she simply hasn’t seen Harry in moments of stress like this.

Maybe her shoulders take on that hard set every time she stands in the wings of the theater before the curtain.

Maybe Emily doesn’t know her well enough to recognize the clench of her jaw, and why should she?

They’re only friends. Emily is not, as Mariah suggested, in love with Harry.

No matter how much she had been thinking about the moment they shared on the theater balcony, when she had been certain Harry was going to kiss her and her pulse had risen like bubbles in the glass of champagne.

At the flag, the racers erupt down the track and the crowd is on its feet almost at once, everyone screaming and waving hats and hands in the air.

Emily stands too, her program clutched to her chest. Someone behind her whistles, shrill and loud.

Violet seizes Emily by the arm, letting out a tremendous whoop as the horses approach the first hedge.