First Season / Bride to Be (21 page)

“I'm back,” he assured her, “and perfectly well.”

“You won't go away again!”

He wouldn't be able to, Richard saw. Not for a while anyway. He shook his head.

“Brought him back from the dead,” someone in the room murmured with a hush of awe. Richard was annoyed to see the turbaned man preen a little in response. He had to get rid of these people. “Mother…”

A tear spilled and ran down her cheek.

Richard stood, meeting the fascinated gazes of an ill-assorted group of strangers. “Perhaps you would all go now. I would like to talk with my mother.”

Several left immediately. Others lingered a few minutes to make formal farewells. Finally, only the large turbaned man was left.

“Richard, this is Herr Schelling,” said his mother in a shaky voice.

Schelling gave another of his deep bows. “I have been privileged to study with the Adepts of the East,” he said, with a slight but noticeable German accent.

“Have you?” said Richard.

“We have much to learn from the Masters of the Hidden World.”

“Indeed? But not tonight, perhaps. If you would excuse us?” The man was a pompous charlatan, but Richard had no desire to argue with him.

“I would not dream of intruding on this tender reunion,” Schelling answered, without making any move to go. “My dear Lady Fielding, you are serene? Your humors are balanced?”

“No,” said Richard's mother. “I am feeling quite agitated.”

“Very natural,” Schelling practically crooned. “Hardly to be avoided in the circumstances. You must visualize the Great Light, allow your unbalance to flow into it and be floated away.”

Richard was appalled to see his mother actually close her eyes and take a deep breath. His disappearance had affected her far more than he had imagined it would.

Schelling, too, had closed his eyes. His hands rose and waved like seaweed in an ocean current. “Yes, I feel the balance being restored, the serenity returning.” He opened his eyes. “Perhaps you would like to join us, Richard?”

He couldn't believe the fellow's effrontery. He gave him a look designed to wither him where he stood and said, “No, thank you. The balance of my humors is perfectly satisfactory.”

Schelling looked pitying. He shook his head.

He was going to see that this faker never crossed his mother's threshold again. In fact, it would be a pleasure to send him back to Germany, if that was where he really came from. “I'll see you out,” he said to Herr Schelling, and took the man's elbow in a grip that made him gasp.

He was not daunted, however. Over his shoulder, he said, “I will see you on Wednesday then, my dear Lady Fielding.”

“Oh,” replied Richard's mother. “Yes, I suppose…why not?”

For any number of reasons, thought Richard as he hustled the man out and handed him over to Henley. When he returned to the drawing room, his mother was still sitting amid the overturned chairs. “You look so different,” she said.

He could only nod. It didn't seem the right time to deal with such a large question.

“It doesn't matter. You're home.” She gazed at him as if trying to see the old Richard in the man who stood before her. “Thank God, you're home.”

“Yes, Mother.” He took her hand once again. She clutched it like a lifeline.

Emily sat beside her aunt and watched dancers turn like flowers across the parquet floor. The musicians at this, her first ball, had struck up a waltz, and she was not allowed to waltz, because she had not yet been approved by one of the powerful patronesses of Almack's. The rule echoed in her head, along with the many others her aunt had set out for her. There was an intricate code of behavior involved in a London season, she had found. She hadn't known there were so many rules in the world. It was the chief difference between her former life and the new existence that had so unexpectedly opened up before her. Emily felt as if she had traveled to a foreign country, where the culture was totally unfamiliar. Yet there was something alluring about it, too. This new country was full of clear expectations, of calm routines that were extremely soothing after all her years of turmoil.

Her aunt Julia was her native guide, Emily thought with a slight smile. She was also a duchess, of course, and just a little bit frightening. It was odd, because her aunt looked so much like her mother—the same red-gold hair and large blue eyes. Her chin was a bit squarer, and her nose a trifle more arched. But anyone would guess that this woman and her mother were sisters. Which made it all the more disconcerting that they appeared to have nothing at all in common. Aunt Julia lived in a magnificent town house in Grosvenor Square. The vast scale of it all had taken her breath away—the tall footmen and butler who had ushered her through the wide door, the richness of the furnishings, and the formality of every small detail. And her aunt's manner, her bearing, couldn't have been more different from Emily's easygoing mother's. She was serene, cool, affable without sacrificing an iota of dignity. Emily couldn't imagine her ever shouting or throwing a piece of crockery. No guest at her table would stand on a chair or topple out of one in a drunken stupor. It was quite relaxing.

And Aunt Julia had thrown herself into Emily's introduction into society with an endearing enthusiasm, declaring that it had always been a great disappointment to her that she had no daughters. She had been efficient, decisive, always utterly clear—like a general planning a campaign, assembling her stores and ammunition, preparing to launch an offensive. Emily had been impressed, and appreciative, though it was a little uncomfortable being the object of so much concentrated attention after her unregarded youth.

Her aunt's efforts seemed designed to refashion her from head to heels. And wasn't that all to the good? She had wanted a different sort of life. It was logical that she should change to meet it.

Above all else, her aunt was plotting to introduce her to legions of the “right sort of young man.” This was the goal of all their activity, all the admonition and advice. Emily wondered what these young men would be like. As far as she knew, she had never encountered such a creature. The right sort of young man, she repeated silently, watching the dancers. She tried to picture one in her mind. Tall, with an athletic figure, an expression that promised intelligence, strength, generosity. He wouldn't have to be incredibly handsome, but there would be something appealing about him that… She was picturing Richard Sheldon, Emily realized with a shock.

Something had seemed very right about him, she acknowledged. When they had walked together across the field, she had felt so…alive. She had felt his heartbeat under her hand.

Emily shook her head. What was the matter with her? She was never going to see him again. Why had she thought of him at all?

“Sit like a queen,” said her aunt Julia. “How you carry yourself is very important.”

Guiltily, Emily straightened. She was so used to leaning back in her chair and daydreaming. It was the one thing she was worried about—her errant imagination and the remarks that came out of her mouth as a result of it. There were things one was supposed to talk about, and many more things one was never to mention. Most particularly, the thousands of questions that buzzed in Emily's head were not acceptable conversation. Indeed, she had already shocked her seemingly imperturbable aunt more than once with the things she knew—and those she didn't.

Holding her head high, she gave her aunt a sidelong glance. Her mother had assured her that Aunt Julia knew everything there was to know about society and that she could have no better advisor in negotiating its intricacies. Emily felt deeply grateful to have such a guide.

In her aunt's house everything ran so smoothly that her needs were fulfilled almost before she recognized them. It was completely unlike home, as if she had been transported into one of those fairy tales where magical servitors anticipate every wish. And then the poor heroine makes a mistake and is plunged into disaster, Emily couldn't help thinking.

Realizing that she was leaning back again, she sat straighter. A London season couldn't be any more difficult than the vicissitudes of her life so far. In fact, she was thoroughly trained in dealing with the unexpected. Why, her father had once invited a pickpocket to dinner to meet the dean of the local cathedral. Could she encounter a more awkward situation among the
haut ton
? Not likely.

“That is Elsmere,” murmured her aunt, discreetly indicating a young man dancing by. “Very eligible.”

Emily turned back to the dance floor. The waltz was graceful. To be held so close to a man one hardly knew must be rather interesting. The dancers shifted and Emily gave an involuntary gasp.

“What is it?” said her aunt.

“That gentleman there—dancing with the woman in yellow.”

The duchess searched the crowd.

“Isn't that…Mr. Sheldon?”

Her aunt examined him for a moment. “He looks a bit…different. But yes, his name is Sheldon. Not mister, however. He is Baron Warrington.” She frowned. “Someone told me he had been lost at sea.”

“Baron,” echoed Emily. He had said nothing about that.

“You know him?”

“He…he had an accident on the road and stopped at our house.”

“Really?”

Her aunt's tone made Emily uneasy. “Just for a few minutes.”

“Don't tell me you developed a
tendre
for him?”

Intimidated by the ferocity of Aunt Julia's expression, Emily shook her head. “We scarcely exchanged five words.” Which was true. No need to mention the walk across the field.

“Quite unsuitable, you know. He hasn't a sou. That family's been all to pieces since my father's day.”

Mr. Sheldon—Baron Warrington—waltzed quite expertly Emily noticed. “So he is not the ‘right sort'?” she wondered a little wistfully.

“Emily! You must
not
say such things!” Aunt Julia looked around, making certain no one had overheard.

A young lady showed no interest in the question of matrimony, Emily remembered. All that sort of thing was handled by her elders. Which was a splendid thought, really, particularly after years of having to deal with everything herself. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

Satisfied, her aunt turned back to the crowd. “No, he isn't,” she conceded very quietly. “Not only is he penniless, his manners aren't exactly…engaging.”

This surprised Emily. “He was perfectly polite to Papa, even when he wished to paint him as Samson.”

“Emily!”

She flushed. “I'm sorry. I forgot.”

Aunt Julia had informed her that her parents' ramshackle establishment and their scandalous past was a social liability. The gossips would like nothing better than to revive the story about their elopement, which would be very embarrassing.

“He met Alasdair?” The duchess looked distressed.

When Emily nodded, her aunt looked despairing.

“He will wreck everything.”

“How?”

“He is a famous wit,” replied the duchess bitterly. “He will make a fine story of Alasdair. Oh lud, Olivia, too. If I had known…”

“He didn't seem like the sort of person who would…”

“He ruined the Stanley chit. Caused her to retire to some godforsaken place in Scotland and breed terriers. Only because her nose was a trifle…large. What he will say about Alasdair…” She struggled for control. “It was long ago, of course. Perhaps he never heard the story.”

“He called Mama ‘the Marquess of Shelbury's lost daughter,'” Emily felt obliged to tell her.

The duchess moaned.

“Mama wasn't the least bit embarrassed.”

“She never comes to London,” was the acerbic reply. “It is easy to care nothing for society's opinion when you don't get within a hundred miles of it.”

Emily acknowledged the truth of that. But she still couldn't reconcile the Richard Sheldon she had met with the man her aunt was describing. “B-baron Warrington was quite civil to all of us.”

The duchess turned and focused her gaze on Emily. “Why?”

“What?”

“Did he need help from you?”

“He…he wanted to borrow a horse.”

“Hah.” Aunt Julia looked triumphant. “You see.”

“But aunt…”

The duchess's attention had shifted. “He has been away for an age,” she murmured. “Where, I wonder? If there was anything disreputable about it…”

“Aunt!”

“Warrington has no scruples. So we can't afford any.”

The waltz ended. The baron escorted his partner off the floor. He was dressed in the height of fashion now, Emily noted, and he looked irritated.

“The best defense is a frontal assault,” muttered Aunt Julia. She appeared to be running calculations in her head. “Come. You will have to renew your acquaintance. I have met his mother,” she announced in more normal tones.

“Perhaps later,” Emily ventured, her feelings wildly mixed. “He is probably already…”

“Nonsense. Come.”

She had no choice but to follow her aunt across the floor. Richard Sheldon had gone to stand beside an older woman who somewhat resembled him. He looked very handsome, but there were a number of very handsome men in the crowded ballroom. He stood out like a hawk among roosters. What was it that made him so different? It was something in his stance, Emily decided, in the way his hands hung at his sides and his body moved inside his clothes.

“Lady Fielding,” said her aunt, very much the duchess. “How do you do?”

The woman standing next to Richard looked surprised, and then very pleased, to be addressed. “Very well, thank you, duchess. You know my son, Richard?”

“Warrington, isn't it?” replied Emily's aunt. “I believe you are acquainted with my boy Philip.” There was no trace of concern in her aunt's expression or tone, Emily noted.

Richard nodded. He hadn't taken his eyes off her, Emily thought. He was staring as if he were a hawk indeed. Her aunt had assured her she looked lovely. Her ball gown was finer than any garment she had ever owned, of pale blue satin overlaid with white gauze and trimmed with blue ribbons. A matching ribbon threaded through her hair, which had been sculpted into an intricate mass of curls. It had taken almost an hour to achieve the style, and the wisps and ringlets that the fashionable haircutter had teased out around her forehead and cheeks tickled and made her want to brush them back, which she had been strictly forbidden to do.

“May I introduce my niece, Emily Crane,” said Aunt Julia grandly. “I am presenting her this season.”

“Indeed?” Lady Fielding gave Emily a polite smile. “I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

Before Emily could speak, her aunt said, “This is her first ball. She knows very few people in London as yet.”

Lady Fielding looked at her son. So did the duchess.

Richard gave a small bow. “Would you care to dance?” he said.

Emily's eyes flew to her aunt, expecting some excuse for a refusal. After what she had said about Mr. Sheldon, she couldn't send Emily off alone with him.

But the duchess merely smiled benignly.

What was she up to? What did she expect her to do? They were all looking at her. She stammered out an acceptance. Richard took possession of her hand as if he owned it and swept her out to join the country-dance just forming.

The transformation was amazing, Richard thought as they began the first figure. The pretty young woman he had met in the country had been polished into a fashionable beauty in an amazingly short space of time.

They moved down the line of dancers and turned at the end, holding up their arms for the next couple to pass under.

Emily outshone most of the other women in the room—which wasn't really surprising if the duchess of Welford had taken her in hand.

“I didn't realize you were coming up to London,” he said as they turned.

“It was decided later.”

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad being stuck here in town after all. Up to now, beset by his mother's anxiety whenever he was out of her sight, he had despaired. The simple act of replenishing his wardrobe—a task that had once occupied all his faculties—had rubbed him raw. The fact that all his old things were too tight in the chest and arms, which he once would have seen as a marvelous opportunity to rig himself out in the very latest mode, now was merely an annoyance. Emily Crane promised a refreshing break from the irritations of society.

He looked down at her, remembering the feel of her slender body against his, her calm acceptance of the oddest events. That memory was more vivid than anything that had ever happened to him in rooms like this. Her eyes were downcast. He ought to speak Richard realized. “Your mother remained in contact with her sister?”

She threw him a quick glance, looking almost frightened, then nodded.

“I wouldn't have thought they would get on. It's hard to imagine people more different.”

This earned him another glance, but no reply.

“One of the leading hostesses of the
ton
and a woman who doesn't care a whit for society,” he elaborated, thinking that he might not have been clear. “It's amazing to think that they grew up in the same household.”