CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
By the time Emma stepped into the Weatherstones’ parlor, all her friends were present.
A sudden burst of glee and welcome came at her unexpected arrival. They each rose to greet her. Though Penelope a bit more carefully than usual, as her faintly rounding form decreed.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Penelope said with a smile and warm embrace. Then in a whisper, she added, “Since you’ve been absent for the past two weeks, I trust marriage suits you well.”
Even though this morning’s rejection had left her confused and admittedly hurt, memories of the last two weeks brought a blush to her cheeks. Whatever was lacking in their marriage, passion certainly filled the void . . .
Or at least it had. Until this morning.
She refused to think about it now. “It’s been . . . unexpectedly wonderful.”
“Lady Rathburn, do sit beside me,” Delaney said with a cheeky grin as she patted the cushion beside her on the settee.
Emma drew off her bonnet and gloves and laid them on a side table. Taking the opposite chair, Merribeth smiled, though her usual brightness was somewhat diminished. “It’s good to see you, Emma.”
“It’s nice to be back,” she said, meaning it. She’d missed the familiarity of their group and visiting with her friends. Especially today when she felt as if she’d lost her best friend.
Stepping around the table, she took her place beside Delaney. The group was unusually quiet. Normally, by now they’d have resumed talk of the latest gossip. Instead, there was a very pregnant silence, telling her that she’d missed a great deal in the past two weeks.
Her gaze stayed with Merribeth. “What’s happened?”
Her friend tucked the needle into a bare scrap of cambric and set her embroidery hoop aside. “I suppose it’s best if I simply come right out with it,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “Mr. Clairmore and I . . . have ceased our involvement. But no—that makes it sound like I had a say in the matter. I’m botching this already, and I told myself I wasn’t going to let it bother me for another minute.” She huffed out a breath and a flash of anger lit the sky blue depths of her eyes. It was startling to witness only because Merribeth never got angry. “He has ceased our involvement. And furthermore, he’s also decided to marry Miss Codington.”
“The vicar’s daughter?” Emma gasped, stunned. Merribeth had known Mr. Clairmore for most of her life. More years than Emma had known Oliver, and even longer than Penelope had known Ethan. It wasn’t possible. It was so unexpected. So sudden.
She never would have believed such a thing could happen . . . until today. Until Rathburn’s obvious change in demeanor. Now, she feared she was experiencing firsthand how unpredictable a man’s heart could be.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she was certain they weren’t all for Merribeth. She reached forward and took her friend’s hand. “I’m devastated for you.”
Merribeth batted away her own tears as if refusing to let them fall. “As you can imagine, I was devastated, too . . . for about three minutes.” Her eyes narrowed and the infamous Wakefield brow made an appearance. “Then I made the mistake of asking him how he could be so certain of his affection for her when we’d spent years planning to marry. Oh, why didn’t my aunt ever teach me that I should only ask questions I truly want answered?”
Emma understood this too well. Hadn’t that been the reason she avoided asking Rathburn about his inheritance? She didn’t want to risk having him tell her outright that it was all settled because of their bargain and thanking her for her part of the deception.
“Mr. Clairmore responded by saying,” Merribeth continued, her tone incredulous, “that her lips tasted like summer wine and her skin was soft as butter.”
“Summer wine?”
“And butter.” Merribeth jerked her head in a nod and then lifted her hands in an angry gesture. “How could I have trusted my heart to a man who delights in . . . in fondling dairy?”
“I think he meant to say—”
Another flash ignited. “I understand the inference, Delaney. I’ve turned his words over so many times in my mind that I know quite clearly how he knows her skin has the same texture as butter.”
“Slippery,” Penelope added in a rush.
Emma nodded. “Greasy.”
“Her face must be covered with pockmarks,” Delaney said.
Merribeth let out a slow breath. “Thank you. I’m certain she’s quite hideous, as well. It will serve him right if he does marry her.”
“You believe he doesn’t intend to marry her?”
“How can I when we’ve been engaged to be engaged for five years? He will probably string her along for a time before he realizes his mistake in losing me,” she said with an edge of her old certainty returning. “By then it will be too late. I’m not going to waste another thought on Mr. Clairmore. I’ve wasted years on him already.”
“Brava,” Delaney said. “We’ll find you a far better candidate for husband before the Season ends.”
“Yes,” Penelope added. “I’m certain he’s out there.”
“This is my third Season,” Merribeth pointed out. “I haven’t been courted by a single gentleman.”
“That’s because every eligible gentleman assumed you were nearly betrothed. Perhaps you’ve known him all along but he’s been too shy.”
“Shyness is the last trait I’d ever look for in a husband again. If there were a suitable gentleman out there, he’d have found me by now, nearly betrothed or not. I’ve given it a great deal of thought,” she said with a firm nod. “I’ve decided that I’d rather meet a man who’s impulsive, passionate, and completely irredeemable than to waste any more time on fools.”
“Don’t make any rash decisions,” Emma said, reminded of her own. The rash decision to go along with Rathburn’s scheme was only leading to her heartbreak. Then again, it had also given her the best two weeks of her life, as well.
“Since my social calendar has been cleared, due to recent events, rash decisions are nearly all I have left.” She released a sigh and then shook her head as if to pretend she hadn’t just said something completely out of character. “Oh, you know me better than that. Clearly, I’ve allowed my romantic sensibilities too much freedom. What I need is certainty. Right now, the only thing I’m certain of is that my aunt and I are attending a house party in Suffolk at Lady Eve Sterling’s estate. After that . . . I’m not certain of anything.”
“I think we can all agree that Mr. Clairmore was undeserving of your affection and devotion,” Penelope said, earning nods of agreement from Emma and Delaney. “But don’t allow his behavior to dictate your life.”
“She’s right,” Delaney chimed in. “You deserve to find a man who’ll sweep you off your feet. A man who’ll write sonnets about your lips—and good ones, too, not paltry comparisons to summer wine. You deserve to find love and settle for nothing less.”
Merribeth blinked back tears again. “Since when did you become a romantic?”
“Romantic,” Delaney snorted, but two spots of color rose to her cheeks, turning all attention to her. “I’m merely supporting my friend in her time of distress. Helping her to find a worthy candidate.”
None of them believed her, but they didn’t press further. After all, Delaney could be inordinately stubborn when she wanted to be.
“I’m certain even the most worthy candidate would choose a bride with a dowry as opposed to one with none.”
“At least without one, you’re certain to find a man who loves you and not your fortune,” Delaney said quietly.
Or marries you in order to gain his inheritance, Emma thought. Although she didn’t speak the words aloud, Penelope seemed to guess what she was thinking. They exchanged a look. Hers filled with doubt and her friend’s with reassurance.
It wasn’t fair to her, with the way she felt and doubted everything about her marriage to Rathburn. And it certainly wasn’t fair to him, having waited so long for his inheritance only to have it withheld by his grandmother when it should have been his years ago.
Emma’s heart broke for Merribeth, but she also admired her certainty. Her friend had a plan and was determined to follow it, rash though it may be. Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Delaney had said, as well. Didn’t they all deserve to find love and settle for nothing less?
Her hands shook when she picked up her needlework. She knew instantly that she wouldn’t be able to sit here for the next hour or two and pretend her nerves weren’t frayed. Pretend that her heart wasn’t breaking.
“Emma, is everything alright?” Penelope asked.
She placed one hand over the other and affected a small laugh. “Perhaps I am out of practice.”
“Do you know what I think?” Delaney offered, hastily stuffing her needlework back into her reticule. “I think we could all use a distraction. After all, new ribbons arrived at Haversham’s today and I’m dying to see if I can convince my newly married friend to buy the crimson. It would look splendid with your coloring.”
“Crimson?” Emma had never worn such a bold color. Surely, the dowager wouldn’t approve.
Merribeth tucked her needlework away and sat on the edge of her cushion. “It would be lovely. Besides, now that you are married, a whole world of color is yours for the taking.”
“Or the wearing,” Penelope added with a grin. “I think it sounds like a splendid idea. After all, the rain has stopped.”
Mention of the rain only reminded her of this morning. Melancholy threatened to return. Yes, she needed a distraction.
“Then, it’s settled.” Emma was determined to put her fears in her reticule with her needlework and synch it closed for the remainder of the day. Perhaps a bit more color in her life was all she needed.
They spent most of the afternoon at various shops, in addition to stopping by a tea room.
At Haversham’s, Emma chose the crimson ribbon, a peacock blue, an emerald green, and a yellow so bright it reminded her of daffodils and one of her mother’s more garish gowns. Although it was all wrong for her coloring, it was too cheerful to leave behind. She needed all the cheer she could get.
As the afternoon progressed, she kept careful watch of the time, not wanting to return too late. Even though she’d planned every detail and left her orders in Mrs. Stillson’s capable hands, she had to arrive in time to dress for dinner and make certain everything was perfect.
Tonight was a night to prove herself worthy.
They were just leaving the flower shop with a dozen pink roses Emma wanted to use as a centerpiece, when they crossed the path of Elena Mallory on the busy street.
Their nemesis stopped instantly, her dark eyes going wide and her mouth open like a fish at market. “Why, Lady Rathburn, what a coincidence. Imagine who I should find after just having received the most delicious morsel of news only moments ago.”
Emma bristled, but inclined her head. She had gall in abundance, this one. Only a month past, she’d tried to embroil both her and Oliver in a terrible scandal. “Miss Mallory.”
“Such formalities when we are all friends.” She tutted.
Delaney scoffed and stepped forward, as if acting as a buffer. “Your news, cousin?”
“I heard it directly from Lady Amherst, who stopped her carriage in order to tell me.” She preened, pressing her splayed fingers to her chest. “I just knew I had to tell you, Lady Rathburn, for I’m sure it must be of the utmost importance to you.”
Don’t dare ask, a voice whispered in her mind. Unfortunately, the dread in the pit of her stomach demanded an answer. “Why me, in particular?”
“Oh . . . because it involves a certain actress and a newly married gentleman, whom it is said used to keep her.” Her eyes brightened in wicked delight. “I believe you might recognize her by name, a Miss Lovetree?”
Merribeth and Penelope moved beside Emma, slipping their arms through hers, as if they’d sensed the amount of strength it required of Emma to continue standing here—all the while pretending she was unaffected.
Delaney set her hands on her hips. “Bad form, cousin. Besides that’s old news.”
“Part, perhaps. However, the fact that she ran away with her gentleman shortly after dawn this morning, is quite new, I assure you.”
This morning?
“From what I hear, he’d just come into a large sum of money.”
His inheritance. Emma couldn’t breathe. Had Oliver left her? After everything, was this how it was to end between them?