Carla Kelly (22 page)

And why not love?
she mused as she walked down the hall to Lady Ragsdale's room. He said he was thirty, high time for any man to be thinking seriously about marriage and a family. She knocked on the door, hugely pleased.

Lady Ragsdale was still in bed. She looked up over the newspaper and smiled at Emma. “Ah, my dear. Over there are the dresses John ordered for you. They came yesterday with Sally's things, and we didn't notice it until the afternoon.”

“For me?” Emma asked as she approached the dresses draped over the chair.

“For you, Emma. And don't look so dumbfounded! John has a very kind streak, once someone calls his attention to a necessity,” Lady Ragsdale stated.

“But I never said anything,” Emma insisted, picking up the dress on top and admiring the softness of the deep green wool. There were lace collars and cuffs on the chair too, and a petticoat far better than the ragged thing she wore.

“No? Well, perhaps neither of us gives John credit for the good he does.”

“I am certain you are right, my lady,” Emma said. The other dress was black, and experience told her how good it would look as a background to her auburn hair and pale complexion. “Oh, please tell him thank you for me.”

“Tell him yourself,” Lady Ragsdale said with a smile. “And Emma, I have a paisley shawl inside my dressing room that I never wear. It's hanging on the closest peg to the door.”

In a haze of pleasure, Emma went into the dressing room and was brought quickly back to earth by Lady Ragsdale's dresser, who obviously had been listening at the door. Acton thrust the shawl into her hands and hissed, “Don't think you'll get any more from my lady.”

“I learned long ago not to expect anything,” Emma whispered back. “I'm certain you'll be quick to tell me if I overstep my place here, Acton.”

The shawl looked especially fine with the green dress. Emma remembered to drop a quick curtsy to Lady Ragsdale and another breathless “Thank you” before closing the door quietly behind her. She was down the stairs in a moment and knocking on the book-room door.

“Emma, you needn't knock,” came Lord Ragsdale's voice from within. “I'm not ingesting opium or fondling the upper chambermaid. At least not presently.”

You are so outrageous,
she thought with a grin.
It almost amounts to Irish wit.
She opened the door and came into the room, suddenly shy. “I just wanted to thank you for the dresses,” she said.

He looked up from the desk where he was going over her neatly entered account books. “I hope they fit.”

Some sense told her that they would be a perfect fit. “I am sure they will, my lord.” When he continued looking at her, she hesitated.
Why do I dislike being under obligation to this man?
she considered as she watched him lean back and continue his perusal of the ledge. “Sir, you didn't need to go to such expense for me.”

He closed the book and indicated the chair next to the desk.

“Emma, I may have many faults, but dressing poorly is not among them. I like the people whom I employ to look at least half as grand as I do.”

She laughed out loud, and he joined in her laughter. “Well, I don't expect you to match my incomparable high looks, Emma, but you must agree that if we are to do business together, I have certain standards.”

“Yes, my lord,” she agreed, a twinkle in her eyes. “I have standards too. Does this mean that if I do not approve of your waistcoat or pantaloons, you will change them to oblige me?”

It was the closest she had ever come to a joke with an Englishman, and he seemed to know. He laughed again, reached out, and touched her arm. “By all means, by all means. I have it on unimpeachable authority that a good wardrobe covers a multitude of character flaws. You are welcome to correct me.”

She watched him a moment more, struck by a sudden and wholly unexpected wave of pity.
You are so convinced of your own flaws,
she thought,
and how sad this is for you. And how strange that I am feeling sorry for an Englishman.

“Emma, you must have something quite serious on your mind,” Lord Ragsdale was saying when she paid attention to him again. “Can it be that my flaws cannot even be covered by a good tailor and boots from Hobie?”

I am going to be impertinent,
she thought as she sat there. “You have far fewer flaws than you think, my lord,” she said, her words coming out in a rush, as though she feared she would not be able to say them if she gave them thoughtful consideration. “And … and thank you for being concerned enough last night to give me the scold I deserved. I promise not to be out past dark in the future on my day off.”

There,
she told herself,
think what you will. I mean every word of it.
As she sat there in embarrassment, it was as though a great stone rolled off her heart. She could not have explained the feeling to anyone, because it was new to her. All she suspected was that it might not be such an onerous chore to serve this man until her indenture was up.

He regarded her as seriously as she knew she was looking at him. “Why, thank you, Emma,” he said finally. “I believe you mean every word of that.”

“I do,” she said promptly as she stood up. “Now, tell me what you want me to do today while you are out, and I will get at it.”

He considered her another moment, a half smile on his face, then set her some tasks that would keep her soundly busy until it was time to leave tomorrow for his Norfolk estate. “When I return this afternoon, I'll expect you to join me in the stables for a look at my new purchase,” he finished, making room for her at the desk and going to the door. “I warn you it will be expensive, so if you want to prune up now, make faces, and act like a secretary and fiscal adviser, be at liberty.”

She smiled. “I have no qualms about what you spend your money on, my lord,” she assured him, “as long as it will lead to prompt double entries, your continuing reformation, and eventual marriage. You know the terms.”

“Indeed, yes,” he agreed, opening the door and leaning against it. “Do wear the green dress first, will you?”

She blushed and busied herself at the desk, murmuring something in reply.

“Don't mumble, Emma,” he said. “It's a bad habit.”

“Very well, my lord,” she said distinctly. “By the way, I meant to ask: Did you have an especially nice time at the theatre last night?”

“You mean, why am I so pleasant this morning?” he asked in turn, leaving her to wonder at his prescience. “Actually, I admired Clarissa's charms with my opera glasses from the safety of my own box and spent the rest of the time trying to figure out how to apologize to you. Good day, Emma.”

She sat at the desk and stared at the door. He opened it again.

“And Emma,” he continued, “if you should ever feel the urge to trust me enough with your own problems, I might even be able to surprise you with useful solutions.”

I wonder if he truly means that,
she thought several times that morning as she worked in the book room. This reflection was followed by the fact that no Englishman had ever kept his word to her or her family. She dismissed his offer but noted, to her annoyance, that his words kept popping into her mind as she answered his correspondence.

Such a plethora of invitations,
she considered as she looked them over and sent regrets or acceptances, according to his instructions.
Now, I would prefer a picnic al fresco to a dinner at the home of some stuffy, gouty duke,
she thought.
Perhaps Lord Ragsdale prefers old cigar smoke to ants.
She wondered what would happen if she arrived at one of these events in his place, chuckling to herself at the imagined expressions on the face of her surprised host. Papa had always assured her—especially on those days when her brothers were more trying than usual—that she had the poise and ability to move in any social circle.
Of course, I would have to lose my accent and study the trivial, so I could be sufficiently vacuous.

Her thoughts drifted to Clarissa Partridge. “I hope you are intelligent enough to realize what you might have,” she murmured. “Lord Ragsdale is certainly potter's clay for the molding, if you are suitably managing. He could even amount to something, with the proper guidance.”

Emma was starting to rub her eyes and wonder where the day had gone when Lord Ragsdale reappeared in the book room, looking none the worse for wear for what must have been a strenuous day for one so indolent.
Do be charitable,
she thought as she looked up, wincing at the sharp pain between her shoulders.

“Yes, my lord?” she inquired, noting that in their brief acquaintance, seldom had she seen him looking so pleased with himself.

His eye was lively with good humor, and he seemed to throw off that boyish, barely contained energy that she remembered—with a pang—about her own younger brother.

“Emma, you must see my horses!”

“Horses in the plural, my lord?” she inquired.

“Yes; singular, isn't it?” he quizzed. “I found myself in the middle of a wonderful sale, and who can resist a sale?”

“But two horses?” she asked. “I know sales are wonderful but …” she stopped. “It is only two, isn't it?”

“Yes,” he assured her, taking her by the arm and pulling her to her feet. “Sir Bertram Wynswich of Covenden Hall, Devon, periodically finds himself under the hatches, and he is obliged to lighten his stables. How lucky I am today. Emma, the letters can wait!”

She capped the ink bottle and let him lead her out of the house and into the stable yard, amused by his horseman's commentary on the finer points of his fortuitous acquisitions.

“Next you will be telling me they can fly,” she grumbled as he hurried her along.

“Very nearly like, Emma,” he agreed, and stopped before the largest loose box. “Well, what do you think? Is this not a sound investment?”

She could not disagree. The horse that came to the railing when Lord Ragsdale leaned his arms on it would have charmed the most discriminating gypsy. He was a tall chestnut, taller than she ever could have managed, with a noble Roman profile, deep chest, and legs that went on forever. He looked as well-mannered as a gentleman, with an intelligent face that seemed to broadcast equine good humor.

Emma stepped up on the railing and glided her hand over his nose. “Oh, you are a bonny lad,” she whispered. “Lord Ragsdale, this must be your lucky day!”

He nodded. “Indeed. Didn't I say so? Do you know I even won at cards this afternoon? I have discovered that it is much easier to play when I am sober. Then I paid a call on Clarissa Partridge.”

“And Miss Clarissa agreed over tea and macaroons to follow you to the ends of the earth?” she teased in turn.

Lord Ragsdale laughed. “Not precisely, you goose, but she did consent to let me escort her to Covent Garden when we return next week.”

“Bravo, my lord!” Emma said, clapping her hands.

Lord Ragsdale bowed, then looked over Emma's shoulder. “And here is another beauty.”

She turned around to look across the aisle at another horse, a gray mare, smaller, but just as interested in the people in the stables as they were in her. Her ears were cocked forward, almost as though she understood their conversation. Emma reached up to pat the second horse, admiring every inch of her elegant bearing.
Lord Ragsdale knows horses,
she thought as she found herself nose to nose with the little beauty. She thought of her father's stables then, remembering with a rush of pleasure completely independent of any regret or longing.

“Oh, Lord Ragsdale, I wish you could have seen my father's stable,” she said, forgetting where she was. “He had a roan that would have given your hack a run for his …” She stopped, acutely aware of Lord Ragsdale's full attention. “But you couldn't be interested in that,” she concluded. She stepped away from the mare, embarrassed.

Lord Ragsdale turned his attention back to his horse, sparing her further embarrassment. “Emma, you're no more shanty Irish than I am,” he commented, not looking at her. “Something tells me that your father had a whopping good stable.”

He cannot possibly be interested in anything I have to say about my family,
she thought, suffering the familiar panic she always felt around Englishmen. “Yes, he did,” she concluded, “but I needn't tax you with that.” She glanced at the gray, desperate to change the subject. “This is a lady's horse, my lord. I hate to tell you, but if you bought this for Miss Claridge, you will be disappointed. She doesn't ride.”

She waited as he continued his scrutiny of her, hoping he would ask no questions that would rip her wounds wide-open, leaving her to bleed inside again.
Oh, please, my lord,
she thought,
change the subject.

He turned from his regard of her and fondled the gray's ears.

“If you must know, I was looking to the future,” he explained, after a moment's hesitancy. “Perhaps Clarissa will enjoy this horse someday.”

My, but you are in love,
she thought, smiling at him and grateful he had taken another conversational tack. “Perhaps you are right, my lord. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have your work to finish.”