Rogue Grooms (33 page)

“Elizabeth Anne!” Georgina admonished. “What did your aunt and I just tell you about that?”

“That he is a made-up man in stories,” answered Elizabeth Anne, completely unabashed.

Emily gave David a sheepish smile. “I am sorry, Lord Darlinghurst. I have been reading her tales of India, and they have rather gone to her head. She was full of anticipation when she heard you had lived there.”

David just laughed. “Not at all. My own daughter enjoys tales of Shiva very much. Your daughter is obviously a curious and learned girl, Your Grace.”

“Indeed she is,” Georgina said fondly, reaching down to smooth her child’s wild red curls. She lifted Elizabeth Anne onto the seat beside her, holding her still with a firm arm about her waist. “Sometimes a bit too much so.”

The tea arrived then, borne by two liveried footmen and placed carefully on a low table between Emily and Georgina. There were far too many delicacies for four people: trays of sandwiches, cakes, and tarts along with two kinds of tea. It was obvious that Cook knew Elizabeth Anne was in residence. The child had a prodigious taste for cakes second only to Emily’s own.

But today Emily found her stomach was too queasy to partake of her favorite cream cakes at all.

“Lady Emily has indeed been reading Elizabeth Anne stories of India,” Georgina said, pouring out the steaming tea into her best Wedgwood cups, paper thin and surrounded with pale Grecian figures. Only the most honored guests were permitted to use the Wedgwood. “She knows a great deal about the land.”

David shot Emily a curious, questioning glance. “Does she truly?”

“Oh, yes! She is always telling us facts of the flora and fauna of Bengal. As an artist, of course, I have many questions about the landscape and people. Perhaps you could tell me, Lord Darlinghurst, about the grand mausoleum of the Taj Mahal? Is it as wondrous as they say?”

And Georgina went on for the next quarter hour or more, peppering David with questions about India and his life there, thus mercifully saving Emily from having to converse much herself. This gave her the chance to observe David closely as he spoke. He still smiled easily, as he had when they were younger. But there was something different in his eyes—something mysterious and almost sad.

But she could not really talk to him until they left the house in David’s new, stylish phaeton and turned into the gates of Hyde Park. Aside from the people riding and walking there, they were quite alone.

 

It was a bit too early in the afternoon for Rotten Row to be truly crowded—Emily and David were actually able to move forward in the phaeton without stopping every ten paces or progressing at a snail’s pace. Riders cantered sedately along, ladies took the air in their open carriages, nannies shepherded their little charges, dogs darted about on leads, barely controlled by footmen assigned to their care. In the distance, Emily thought she glimpsed Lord Pickering and Sir Arnold Ellis, on horseback paused in a small grove of trees. Sir Arnold’s emerald green coat stood out like a beacon. She turned her open yellow silk parasol toward them, so they would not see her and come speak to her, as they always did.

She did not want anything to interfere with this moment, this illusion of solitude with David. And she was not sure she could speak lightly and coherently with anyone—not with all the thoughts dashing around in her head.

They had been silent as they drove away from the house, Emily feeling the sharp stares on the back of her neck until they turned the corner. She knew that Georgina and Elizabeth Anne were watching avidly from the window, and it made her want to laugh aloud. Now that they were alone in the sunny afternoon outdoors, she
did
laugh. It was truly ridiculous that her glamorous sister-in-law was so very interested in Emily’s own quite dull life!

David glanced over at her, a half-smile quirked the comer of his lips. She noticed a small dimple, and had the oddest, almost overpowering urge to place her fingertip over it and feel his smooth skin beneath her touch. Was that enticing dimple there when they were younger? How had she failed to see it then?

Ridiculous girl!
she chided herself, and tightened her grip on her parasol handle until the carved ivory bit into her palm.

“Something amusing, Lady Emily?” he asked.

Emily started to retreat into her usual reserve, to give some polite, tossed-away answer. She had become quite expert at hiding her true thoughts, her fears and apprehensions and odd sense of humor, behind cool smiles and distant politeness. It was easier that way. It made her feel less apart from those around her and less like a strange creature.

And more lonely.

But this was David, she remembered. Once, she had been able to tell him anything, any fear or joy or silly joke. Just because he was now a tall, handsome, delicious-smelling man with intriguing dimples, that did not mean her friend was not still there under all that splendor. The boy who had been patient and kind with her, who had always been up for a lark or laugh, must still lurk behind his dark rajah’s eyes.

She rested her parasol against her shoulder and smiled up at him. She was determined to find her friend there, and to show him that really she was not so very different, either. Surely she could still laugh,
really
laugh, even though she felt one hundred years old so much of the time. “Oh, no. I just—that is, I want to apologize for my sister-in-law’s ... nosiness. That is really the only word for it. She is an artist, you know—quite a famous one—and views every new acquaintance as a potential subject. She meant no harm by asking you so many questions about yourself and your life in India. And she is also a rather informal mother, who gives free rein to her daughter’s curiosity. As, I admit, do I.”

“Not at all, Lady Emily. There is no need to apologize. The duchess and Lady Elizabeth Anne are quite charming. I can see where it would be impossible not to indulge such a child,” David said, his voice full of the deep force of his own suppressed laughter. “After so long in India, where everyone is so painfully aware of etiquette that they never say anything in the least bit unexpected, I enjoy true conversation. It is a relief.”

“And so do I!” Emily exclaimed in delight. “London is surely no better than India in its formal ways. No one ever says the true, real thing—one must always guess what a person is thinking. The conversation is all weather and fashion and housekeeping and horses.”

“I have noticed, in my short time here, that such topics
are
quite common. I spent at least ten minutes with Lady Wilton at her ball speculating on whether or not it would rain the next day. I would have thought the interest in such a question would wane in two minutes at the very most.”

Emily laughed. “Ah, but as I recall it did
not
rain this morning. Was that the consensus you and Lady Wilton reached?”

He chuckled, and tugged at the reins to turn the horses for another circuit of the Row. “I fear I cannot recall, Lady Emily. Pray tell me, do you think we will see rain
tomorrow
?”

Emily’s laughter grew louder, drawing the surprised glances of a mother and her pastel-clad daughter. Their escort, who looked suspiciously like Mr. Carrington, gave her a hurt stare, but Emily could not care. The nervous knot in her stomach was at last melting, and she began to enjoy herself. “La, Lord Darlinghurst, I could not say! But that cloud in the distance appears quite ominous. I fear it may ruin Lady Egghurst’s Venetian breakfast and a planned balloon ascension.”

“A Venetian breakfast? This must be a new style of event I have not heard of, Lady Emily. Pray enlighten me as to its function. Or are social events not considered one of the suitable topics for conversation?”

“On the contrary, it is the
most
suitable. Yet I fear a Venetian breakfast is not as exotic as it sounds. My brother and sister-in-law travel to Italy quite often—the duchess owns a house in Venice, and she says there is nothing at all Venetian about such soirees. They are dull affairs.”

“Then I should not attend?”

“If you have a choice, no. Alas, I have no choice, as Georgina already promised, in a moment of great weakness, that we would be there. Though, if you do come, we could discuss the weather to our hearts’ content.”

“I shall be there, then. I cannot resist a good conversation about the rain.”

There was a new note in his voice, one Emily had not heard before. It was tinged with a deepness, a seriousness—a flirtatiousness? It was hard for her to tell. Gentlemen were so awed by her brother’s status that they seldom flirted with her. Emily peeked at David from beneath the brim of her bonnet, but she could see only his profile, as clear-cut and expressionless as if carved on an ancient Indian coin.

Emily decided she must have been mistaken, and she turned away to nod at a passing acquaintance. “It will be amusing if you are there. At such routs, when I grow bored, I imagine myself taking off my slippers and climbing onto the table to wade in the Roman Punch or some such outlandish deed. It would liven things up immensely, I daresay, but alas, I never have the courage!”

David laughed, and when he spoke again his tone was its usual light politeness. Yes—she had surely imagined any flirtatious admiration. She almost sighed aloud in what felt surprisingly like disappointment.

“So, you have never carried out your imaginings, Lady Emily?”

“I am no Caro Lamb. But the imagining does help to pass the time. I also sometimes make up fairy tales in my head to tell Elizabeth Anne later.”

“Tales of blue men with many arms?”

Emily gave an abashed laugh. “I meant no disrespect in telling her that, I promise. But she does so enjoy stories of India, and someone gave my brother a book of Hindu tales. I thought she would like some of them, the more, er, humorous ones.” Emily felt that treacherous old blush spreading again as she recalled some stories of the gods’ many amorous exploits, stories she would
never
tell her niece, but which she herself quite enjoyed. She strategically turned her parasol so he could not see her red cheeks and guess her thoughts.

“My own daughter enjoys such tales,” he replied. “But she also likes old stories of English kings and queens, especially Queen Elizabeth. We read many of them on our long voyage from India.”

Emily frowned a bit at this reminder of the family life that had, for David, filled the years they were apart. She wondered again about his wife, his love for her. But she was not quite so willing to let go of the niceties she had just mocked, in order to ask him about those things. “How is your daughter enjoying England, now that she is here?”

He hesitated for an instant before answering. “Quite well, though I fear she has developed a taste for the bloodthirsty. We visited the Tower, and she had no interest in the jewels or the menagerie. She wanted only to see where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard are buried. I hope to find a proper governess for her very soon, and hopefully she can turn Anjali’s interests toward more suitable avenues.”

“If you are having difficulties, I am sure my sister-in-law could assist you. She has only just found a governess for Elizabeth Anne.”

“Thank you. I would appreciate any advice very much.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they turned away to drive toward the Serpentine. It was growing more crowded along Rotten Row, but was quiet by the river. David drew the phaeton to a halt under the shade of a tall tree where they could watch the strolling couples and children floating their paper boats.

“You read a great deal about India, then?” David asked quietly.

Emily busied herself closing her parasol, smoothing down the folds of silk. “Yes. When we were children, I was fascinated by the tales you told me. Stories of the people and the land. I always imagined I could see it in my mind: the hot, burning sun, the sweet smell of the flowers, the strange colors. I imagined your mother was like a princess in a book, draped in silks and golden jewelry. And when you left, I wanted to know more. So, I read anything I could find about India. I talked to people who had just returned from there. I—I wanted to be able to imagine what your life was like.”

Emily feared she had said too much with that last tentative admission. David was quiet beside her, and she fixed her gaze on a little boy feeding a clutch of ducks. She should never have admitted she thought of him so much when he was gone. Not when she was sure he had not thought of
her
in his years of marriage and family.

She felt something light against her hand, like a bird’s wing or a butterfly. She stared down, startled, to see his fingers pressed over hers, atop the handle of her parasol. It looked—
felt
—so right there, so warm and safe and unbearably exciting. She would never have imagined, even in her wildest flights of fancy, that the mere brush of a man’s gloved hand could cause such a wild flutter deep in her stomach.

She slowly turned her hand to curl her fingers about his.

“I, too, wanted to know what your life was like here in England,” he murmured, his face turned toward her. His cool breath stirred the small curls at her temple. “I wanted to know if you were happy—if you were still at Fair Oak, racing your horses across the fields, or if you were dancing in London. If you were married and had a new family.”

“I do not,” Emily whispered. “But you do.”

“I do—I did. Lady Emily, Rupasri, my wife, was—”

But Emily suddenly did not want to hear about his wife, and she cut him off with a gesture. The love he had for his wife, a lady of his own country, a lady Emily herself could never be—how could she hear of it and not be wounded? She could not breathe; she wanted her old, safe façade back.

She slid her hand gently away from his, and gave a light, if slightly forced (even to her own ears) laugh. “La! We have known each other so long it sounds silly for you to call me Lady Emily. You must call me just Emily, and I will call you David, at least when we are alone like this. Agreed?”