Page 58 of Indecently Daring

“You would. She’s worth a fortune,” Lady Beauchamp whispered gleefully. Cora turned and hushed her with a warning glare.

“Will it do, Lucian?” St Clair asked, turning to Montagu.

“Alana, you wish to marry this man?” the marquess asked, his piercing gaze boring first into her, and then Harry.

“Yes, my lord. I do. Very much.”

“Then, assuming your parents agree to the match, it seems we may have a solution. It won’t entirely kill the rumours but, providing Catherine can behave herself for the next few months, the fuss should die down.” Montagu regarded Lady Catherine and shook his head. “Well, child, you’ve fallen on your feet again, it seems, but even a cat runs out of lives eventually.”

Cat nodded, swallowing. “Yes, Papa.”

Montagu regarded her steadily, frustration glinting in his cool, silver gaze. “If only I believed it would make a jot of difference. I thank God your mother isn’t here, and to think I thought to surprise you with a visit. I ought to know better.”

St Clair got to his feet and patted Lucian on the back. “There, there, old man. Boys are so much easier, aren’t they?”

Montagu looked at him and let out a bark of laughter. “I’m too tired to answer that. Goodnight, everyone. I need to get some sleep, or I shall rival the parrot for obscene comments.”

Chapter 17

My Lord Marquess,

I hope you are in good health and spirits. I am relieved to know plans have been made to your satisfaction. We will indeed be at home on Monday morning. I would suggest coming early, as close to ten as you are able, for most of Mama’s callers will arrive after eleven. Else we will not have a moment’s peace.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Leander Steyning, The Marquess of Wrexham from Miss Emmeline Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

28thof January 1845, Peregrine House, Grosvenor Square, London.

“Are you looking forward to the Valentine’s ball at Holbrook, Emmeline? Em, dear. Emmeline? Emmeline!”

Emmeline yelped and almost threw aside the embroidery hoop she was staring at as the sharp words penetrated her abstraction.

“What? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mama,” she said, blushing as she realised she’d not heard a word her mother had said. “I was wool-gathering, I’m afraid.”

“You ought to have enough wool to clothe an army by now, considering how much wool-gathering has gone on of late,” her mama remarked, giving her the benefit of a suspicious look that made Emmeline’s stomach squirm. “I swear you’ve become oddly jumpy and vague this past week or so. I wish you would tell me what is the matter.”

“Nothing’s the matter, Mama,” Emmeline insisted, doing her best to give her mother a bright smile while her insides tied themselves into a knot.

The front door knocker sounded, two decisive strikes, and Emmeline’s breath caught. A moment later, the door opened, the butler announcing the arrivals.

“Lady Montagu and Lady Cavendish for you, Lady Helena.”

“Thank you. You may bring the tea in now, please, Havers.”

The butler nodded and went out as Matilda and Aashini entered. They greeted Emmeline and Mama and settled themselves in for a pleasant chat. They were early today, Emmeline thought, chewing her lip as she tried to keep half an ear on the conversation and look as though she was actually doing some stitching. She’d never have made a spy, she thought ruefully. Mama was right: ever since she’d agreed to Wrexham’s plans she’d been like a cat on hot bricks. Another knock at the door had Emmeline holding her breath, only to deflate when Alice Hunt arrived. The petite redhead exclaimed happily on seeing Matilda and Aashini, and soon the four of them were chattering about what projects they were busy with, the latest foolishness their children had been up to, and whatever gossip had crossed their paths since last they’d spoken.

Emmeline prayed there were not many more visitors this morning, or Mama would task her with entertaining them and she’d never be able to speak privately with Wrexham. As it was, she did not know if they’d manage more than a few words.

Emmeline sighed.

Another knock.

She stared down at her embroidery hoop, heart thudding unevenly.

“The Marquess of Wrexham and Mr Humboldt.”

Emmeline looked up, and her breath hitched. She couldn’t help it. Wrexham’s presence filled the room, obliterating everyone else in it as far as she was concerned. He’d worn the dark glasses today, the frames giving him an oddly sinister look which did not settle her nerves a whit.

She did not dare look at her mother, though Emmeline could sense curiosity in the weight of her gaze as she watched Wrexham enter, Humboldt guiding him discreetly. He greeted them all politely, his manners impeccable, though Emmeline could feel the tension radiating from him in waves. He did not like this, did not enjoy being here. She did not know how she knew that, what it was that gave him away, for outwardly he appeared entirely at ease. Yet he was vulnerable in this moment, in this strange sitting room where he did not know the layout. He couldn’t know if there was a wrinkle in the rug beneath his feet ready to trip him, or if at any moment he might knock into a side table holding some cherished ornament. But he had come, had put himself through the ordeal to see her.