The Marriage Wager (10 page)

“Yes, but if a man can afford to keep more than one…”

“It is not allowed, Ferik.” Emma moved toward the door, hoping to signal a definite end to this subject. “Now, we are going out. You will accompany us.”

This diverted him. “But it is raining again, mistress,” he protested. “You will get wet.”

Emma hid a smile, knowing that he meant he would get wet. “We will take a covered hack, Ferik. Get your hat.”

His massive shoulders sagging slightly, her giant servant turned away. As he left the room, Emma heard him mutter. “Rain, soft white food, one wife. It is a barbarous country.”

***

A short while later the three of them were prowling the crowded aisles of the Pantheon Bazaar. Arabella was exclaiming at the cheapness of the goods while the other shoppers eyed Ferik with openmouthed uneasiness. “Look at this velvet,” said Arabella. “This is less than half what I paid three years ago for the same stuff! And the blue satin; it’s dirt cheap. If I had known about this place before, I might have twice as many gowns as I do.”

Eyeing the almost painful brightness of the satin, Emma said nothing. She went back to looking through a pile of sprigged muslins, picking out the finest.

“Gloves ninepence the pair,” cried Arabella. “Ribbon, braid, bugling. Everything you could want is here.” She wandered off through the aisles, picking up items at random and exclaiming aloud at their value.

Emma did not allow herself to be distracted by branches of artificial flowers or a special price on ribbon of a particularly virulent yellow. She knew precisely what she wanted, and she went about the aisles filling a mental list that she had spent some time compiling. As the neatly wrapped parcels accumulated in Ferik’s stout arms, she began to feel a certain excitement. It had been a long time since she had spent so much on things for herself. The thought of appearing before Colin in the gowns she had envisioned was pleasant, as was the idea of going out in public without worrying about winning enough money to pay the next month’s expenses. A hint of the enjoyment she had once found in society returned to her, like an animal struggling to life after a long hibernation.

“Now I must find a dressmaker who is very good and very reasonable about her fees,” Emma said as they rode home together in a hansom cab.

“I have just the person for you,” replied Arabella. “She is a friend of mine, and, like me, in, uh, difficult circumstances since the death of her husband last year.”

Emma frowned. “I would like to help your friend, Aunt,” she said. “But I must have a truly fine seamstress who can create as well as sew. If it were not so important…”

“No, no. You don’t understand. Sophie is a Frenchwoman, an émigré. She has the most exquisite taste. She is starting up her own dressmaking business, and she already has a number of customers, but she is not well known as yet. I’m sure she would be happy to make your gowns for next to nothing if you would mention her name when you are a baroness.” Arabella rubbed her hands together. This was just the sort of transaction she enjoyed. Sophie would owe her a few gowns for making this connection.

“Well…” This sounded promising, but Emma did not want to be put in the position of rejecting a friend of Arabella’s.

“Why not meet her and talk with her?” suggested the older woman. “If you don’t think she will do, that will be the end of it.”

After all, thought Emma, she had no other candidates. “Very well.”

“Splendid.” Arabella clapped her hands. “Isn’t this fun? It is all just like a fairy tale.”

“We haven’t yet met the dragon,” answered Emma dryly.

***

The moment Sophie Fisher walked into Arabella’s drawing room, Emma knew she was the right choice. She wore a gown of thin muslin in a rich amber shade that perfectly complimented her dark coloring. With its scooped neck, high waist, and wide ruffle along the hem, the dress looked as if it had come straight from Paris. It had tiny tucks in the bodice and puffed sleeves executed with exquisite skill, and was stylishly trimmed with knots of gold ribbon. The combination of taste and workmanship was exactly what she wanted. After a brief greeting, Emma simply got out her lists and the models she had found in various fashion periodicals and began to show them to Sophie. Within five minutes they were seated side by side on the sofa poring over these, and Sophie was offering such good advice that Emma resolved to put herself entirely in her hands. She foresaw only one problem. “I must have these very quickly,” she pointed out.

Sophie, who had been thoroughly drilled by Arabella on the situation, waved an airy hand. “I have three ladies who sew for me, and I can add two more. We will have your trousseau for you like this.” She snapped her fingers. “I will send someone for the cloth today, and we will begin to cut. Tomorrow afternoon, a fitting. It will go like a flash, you will see.”

“Splendid,” said Emma.

Sophie gave her a shrewd glance. There was no need to mention the fact that she was doing herself a service also, she decided. This was a very intelligent young woman. She would not forget her part of the bargain. For a moment, Sophie Fisher lost herself in an agreeable vision of the future—an exclusive shop on Bond Street, duchesses clamoring for her designs, a fat bank account, respect and independence. With only a very little help, she would make a great success. She was certain of it. Then her bone-deep practicality reasserted itself. There was much to do before that time. Best get to work at once. She stood. “I will go then,” she told Emma. “My boy will come for the cloth very soon.”

“It is ready.”

Sophie bowed her head. She was turning to go when she hesitated. “Perhaps I will just take the satin now,” she decided.

“Certainly. I’ll fetch it for you.”

In a few moments, the package was in Sophie’s hands. “Good,” she pronounced. “You will be
ravissante
in this,” she promised as she departed. “And in everything I make for you. Be assured.”

Emma was.

She closed the door behind Sophie in great good spirits, and when a knock sounded on the panels a few minutes later, she answered it smilingly herself. “Did you forget…” she began. But the words died on her lips. It was not Sophie who stood there, but someone quite different, someone she had never thought to see again in her life.

The worst man in the world walked nonchalantly over the threshold. As if he owned the house. As if he had no doubt at all of an enthusiastic reception. He smiled at her warmly, intimately, as if they knew each other very well indeed.

Emma swallowed a bad taste in her mouth. She had not encountered Count Julio Orsino in nearly a year, and she certainly had not thought of him. She never thought of men like him unless she had to. He represented everything she hated most in the world. And yet here he was, standing before her with his hand held out in greeting as if they were on the best of terms.

“My dear Lady Tarrant,” he said. “I so hoped to find you here.”

“Really?” replied Emma coldly. “Why?”

He looked hurt. “Why, for the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance,” he declared.

Orsino hadn’t changed at all, Emma noted. His black hair was still flat and smooth as leather on his round head; his dark eyes were liquidly expressive. His face remained blandly pleasant, effectively masking a host of evils. His exquisite mode of dress made the best of a short, stocky frame. All in all, his appearance gave no clue to his true nature. Emma felt her fingers curl into claws and made an effort to relax them.

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind them. “Was that the door?” wondered Arabella’s high-pitched voice. “Oh,” she added, seeing the caller.

Orsino was not the sort of person anyone should know, Emma thought. She wished she didn’t know him herself. But she didn’t see how she could avoid introductions. “Mrs. Arabella Tarrant,” she said tersely.

Orsino stepped forward and executed a sweeping bow. “I am Count Julio Orsino,” he said. “From Italy. Enchanted.” He grasped Arabella’s limp hand and kissed it.

“Oh my,” she fluttered. She looked at Emma, silently requesting more information.

“We were acquainted with the count in Europe,” Emma said tonelessly.

“Acquainted?” he protested. “Surely more than that? I was a close friend of poor Edward,” he informed Arabella. “Your nephew, I believe?”

“Friend,” repeated Emma with contempt. “You encouraged his excesses, applauded his worst behavior. You led him into ruin and profited from every step. If he had listened to me, he would have severed the connection with you years ago.”

“You are very hard,” he commented, without seeming offended.

“Indeed, Emma, you are being horribly rude to the count,” put in Arabella, who had clearly been impressed by his manner. “Come in, sir. May we offer you a glass of Madeira?”

“Thank you.” With urbane effrontery, he followed the older woman into the drawing room.

What did he want? Emma wondered. For it was certain he wanted something. Orsino did nothing except for his own advantage. Then she remembered the newspaper announcement. No doubt he had seen it. And now he expected to profit somehow from her connection to St. Mawr. Her expression hardened. He’d find he’d misjudged things this time, she thought.

“Yes, London is a fine city,” Orsino was saying when she came into the room. “Although it cannot compare with, say, Vienna, can it, Lady Tarrant?” He gave her a meaningful look, as if he were referring to some deeply significant shared experience.

Emma fumed. She was certain he knew that she despised him. “I fear you have caught me at an awkward moment,” she said crisply. “I have another engagement in a short time.”

“What engagement?” asked Arabella tactlessly.

The count sat in an armchair and said nothing, merely keeping his gaze on Emma with a half smile.

“Some errands I must do,” replied Emma through gritted teeth.

His smile grew even broader. “You do not make me feel entirely welcome.”

“What do you want?” she answered.

“Emma!” exclaimed Arabella.

“Won’t you sit?” Orsino asked, gesturing toward the sofa.

“No.”

“Ah.”

He seemed much amused by her annoyance, Emma thought. “What do you want?” she repeated.

He spread his hands and looked blandly innocent. “This is merely a courtesy call,” he claimed. “I wished to offer my felicitations on your forthcoming marriage.”

Arabella threw Emma a reproachful look. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she said. “Such a splendid match.”

“If you have come here looking for money, you have made a mistake,” said Emma.

“Emma!” exclaimed Arabella again.

“No, no, I want no money,” he replied, surprising her. “I thought only to see an old friend. Friendship is so important, don’t you think?”

Now it comes, thought Emma, bracing herself.

“One can get so lonely, in a foreign country, knowing no one. You have felt this yourself.”

Emma simply waited.

“But you have done so well here in London. Perhaps you would take pity on a poor stranger and introduce me to some of your acquaintances.”

“Ah,” said Emma. “You want me to bring you into society, so that you may cheat people out of their money at the gaming tables.”

Arabella made a scandalized sound.

“Cheat?” echoed Orsino, as if shocked.

“Everyone knows you cheat,” declared Emma.

“If you were a man, I might call you out for such an accusation,” threatened the count silkily.

“If I were a man, I’d happily put a bullet through you,” said Emma. “I will not present you to anyone. You may as well go back where you came from.”

“That is not… possible,” he said. “I plan a stay of some duration in England.”

“Are the authorities after you? I’m not surprised. You may as well leave. I have said I won’t—”

He held up a hand to silence her. His expression was so malicious that Emma hesitated. It was not wise to take Orsino lightly. Behind his bland exterior, he was ruthless. She could call to mind numerous examples of men and women he had destroyed.

The count seemed to consider. The mantel clock ticked into the silence for a long moment. Then, Orsino appeared to make a decision. He rose. “We will talk again, when you are in better spirits,” he said.

He thought he had some lever to use against her, Emma saw, and he was saving it. But it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted. “My spirits have nothing to do with it,” she told him. “I will never change my mind.”

The count smiled unpleasantly. “Never is a very long time,” he replied as he went out.

As Arabella began to upbraid her for her impolite behavior, Emma gazed at the empty doorway. Unsavory characters from her past had been no part of the bargain Colin Wareham made, she thought uneasily. And she knew she had by no means seen the last of Count Julio Orsino.

Emma put the finishing touches on her ensemble and stood back to look in Arabella’s ancient full-length mirror. The ball gown was even better than she had imagined. The underdress, of midnight-blue satin, reflected back the blue of her eyes. The skirt that fell from the high waist was overlaid with silver net, which matched the gleam of her silver-gilt hair, caught up now at the back of her head and allowed to fall in a cascade of ringlets. The miraculous Sophie had found a thin silver braid to trim the neckline and the tiny puffed sleeves. The dress was exactly what Emma had wanted—elegant, sophisticated. It was also the most beautiful dress she had had for a long, long time.

Arabella peeked around the half-open door. “He’s here,” she said. She was as excited as if she, and not Emma, were the one being presented to the Wareham family and the
ton
tonight. In fact, Emma wished she could restrain her excitement a bit; she was making her nervous.

“Oh, you look perfect!” the older woman exclaimed. “I told you Sophie is a genius with cloth.”

“So she is,” answered Emma. Picking up a gauzy silver scarf, she settled it around her shoulders, then took one last look in the mirror. Colin’s family would not be able to find fault with her appearance, she thought. Which was fortunate, because they were more than likely to find fault with everything else.

“St. Mawr looks terribly handsome,” Arabella confided, following Emma from the room. “You will be the envy of every girl at the ball tonight, my dear. How I wish I could see it!”

Emma said nothing as she made her way downstairs. Arabella had been angling for an invitation to join tonight’s party since the moment she had heard of it. But though she felt a twinge of guilt over the matter, Emma emphatically did not want her there. A member of Edward’s family would be wholly out of place in any case, she reminded herself.

When she entered the drawing room, Colin had his back to her, looking out the front window. Emma watched him for a moment while he was still unaware of her presence. He stood very straight, like a former soldier. His broad shoulders and fine athletic figure were perfectly set off by his dark evening clothes. His black hair curled just slightly on his neck. And yet, despite the richness of his attire and the assurance of his bearing, there was something sad about him. She couldn’t even see his face, but she could sense the melancholy hanging over him like an enveloping mist. Emma moved farther into the room. “I am ready,” she said.

He turned, and smiled, with no hint of sadness visible. Then, as he took in her gown, her hair twisted in a glinting knot, the delicate set of her head, his smile altered a little. She was stunning, he thought. He had expected beauty, and a suitably fashionable dress, but she went far beyond what he had pictured. She had a presence, an impact, that filled the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Beautiful,” he said, inadequately.

Emma enjoyed the admiration in his eyes. She did a little pirouette and said, “The lamb is ready for the slaughter, my lord.”

He laughed. “Nonsense. They will be bowled over.” He offered his arm. “Unless we are late. Then Great-Aunt Celia will drag us both over the coals.”

Taking his arm, Emma looked up at him. This moment felt weighted with significance. After tonight, it would be impossible to go back, to change their minds about the marriage or admit they’d made a mistake. Had she? Emma wondered. For a woman who hated gaming, she was taking a huge gamble, wagering her entire life. She had made such a reckless choice seven years before, she thought, and regretted it bitterly ever since.

“What is it?” said Colin.

Emma swallowed. “Are you sure?” she asked, a wealth of meaning vibrating in the three words.

He did not ask what she was talking about. “As sure as it is possible to be,” he replied.

She drew back a little. “What does that mean?”

His eyes, steady on hers, were full of shadowed depths. “I have spent the last eight years of my life never certain whether I would see another day,” he said. “There were so many times when I might have been killed.”

“But you weren’t,” she put in, unsettled by the thought of such an existence.

“No. But friends were, men under my command. Cut down before they were twenty, some of them.”

Emma’s eyes widened.

“I concluded that you cannot count on the future. There is no guarantee of tomorrow. We must simply do the best we can with the moments we have.”

A dark philosophy, Emma thought; not one she shared, despite everything that had happened to her. But something in his face, his eyes, had answered her inner questioning. “And I must spend some of my precious moments being scrutinized by your family?” she asked in a much lighter tone.

“No one will slight you,” he said. “You
may
count on that.”

Slightly startled by his vehemence, Emma blinked.

“We must go,” he added. “Aunt Celia is rabid on the subject of punctuality.”

“Then by all means, let us go,” she said, moving with him toward the door. “I don’t wish to set her against me from the very first.”

Arabella, lurking at the darkened front parlor window, watched them walk out together. They were the handsomest couple she had ever seen, she thought. Both tall with long, easy strides; both powerful personalities, although she was not sure they were fully aware of it; both charming when they wanted to be; and both somehow different, not like the rest of the fashionable set. She tried to put her finger on just what it was that set them apart. A certain solitude, even in the midst of people, she thought; an almost brooding quality? Arabella shook her head. She was being fanciful. What mattered was that it was an excellent match, and that she had had a hand in making it. Once again, she congratulated herself. Better times were definitely ahead.

“Tell me who will be at dinner,” said Emma when they were settled in his carriage.

“My mother; my sister Caroline and her husband Wrotham; several cousins and their assorted spouses. Remarkably assorted, in one or two cases. All presided over by Great-Aunt Celia, whom I’ve told you about.”

“Too much, perhaps,” responded Emma. “I’m all in a quake.”

“Yes, you look it,” he said ironically, scanning her serene expression.

“I am mastering my emotions,” she informed him severely, “just as my dear old governess taught me to do.”

“Admirable,” he replied with a smile. He did not believe she was truly afraid. Slightly nervous, yes. But he thought she might actually be rather excited at the challenge the evening presented, and he liked her attitude. Because he didn’t want to spoil it, he waited until they had stepped down from the carriage and were being admitted to his great-aunt’s elegant town house to add, “Your father and brother will be present as well, of course.”

Emma froze in the act of tucking up a curl. “What?”

“We could not do this without them,” he said. “It would look odd.”

Her jaw set. “I don’t want to see him.”

“Your father will be on his best behavior. Aunt Celia will see to that. I’ve told her to keep him at her side all evening.”

Emma looked mulish.

“You must see that to exclude your family, when they live right here in London, would look strange. It would appear that we were ashamed of them.”

“I am! Of him, anyway.”

“They would think it was my doing,” Colin pointed out, “that I did not care for the family I was marrying into. I wouldn’t want to give that impression.” He had thought this out carefully. Though Colin had never paid much heed to society’s rules or to what others thought of him, now that he was about to present Emma as his future wife, all that was changed. He was determined that she would not be slighted by the
ton
, and he was ready to do whatever was necessary to make certain of it.

“Oh,” said Emma. He did not want to appear churlish in the eyes of his friends, she thought. No doubt their opinion was important to him. “Oh, very well.”

“You need never see him again once we’re married,” he promised, half teasing.

Emma’s features relaxed in a smile. “Is this how you intend to treat me then, my lord? Springing unpleasant truths upon me too late for me to do anything about them?”

“Of course,” he said. “Invariably.”

As he had hoped, this made her laugh a little. Thus, when they entered the drawing room side by side, the people waiting there saw a slightly smiling, apparently confident, unworried Emma, absolutely dazzling in her beautiful gown. Though her expression grew serious at once, the critical first impression had already been made, and an advantage established.

Colin escorted her around the room with a fine sense of protocol. “My great-aunt Celia, Lady Burrington,” he said first.

Emma dropped a small curtsy to the massive old woman who sat in a great carved chair clutching an ebony cane. The rigidly boned and constructed bodice and wide billowing skirts of her brocade gown echoed the fashions of fifty years ago. Her lace cap was perched on snowy white hair, and her hands were gnarled and twisted with age. There was nothing old about the look she gave Emma, however. It was shrewd and challenging, daring her to show her mettle. “Where’d you find that gown?” the old lady barked without preamble.

She looked like an extremely successful bird of prey, Emma thought, one whose claws were always kept razor sharp. “A very clever Frenchwoman made it for me,” she responded evenly. “Sophie Fisher.”

“Fisher? Never heard of her.”

“She is not well known in London as yet,” conceded Emma.

“I daresay you’ll be the making of her, then,” said Lady Burrington, giving the gown another critical but approving examination.

“That is her hope,” said Emma.

Her hostess raised one white eyebrow. She did it just as Colin did, Emma thought. Or, she supposed, the other way around. If Emma had not seen the twinkle in the old woman’s eye, she might have thought she had offended her.

“My mother,” said Colin, moving Emma a little to the left. “Catherine, Baroness St. Mawr.”

“For now, at least,” was the sharp rejoinder.

Emma was surprised to face a small woman, inches shorter than she, and very plump and pleasant-looking. She realized that she had been visualizing a large, frowning harpy, with a beak of a nose and thick eyebrows, in the role of Colin’s mother. A slight flush stained her cheeks. “How do you do?” she said.

“Humph,” was the only reply. The baroness was openly dismayed. This elegant, imperturbable young woman was not what she had expected. Beauty, yes; that was inevitable. But Emma Tarrant had far more than beauty. She did not look at all like an interloper, or a schemer after Colin’s money and position. Where in the world had she found such self-possession, the baroness wondered, such an air?

“My sister Caroline,” said Colin, not lingering in dangerous territory.

“How lovely to meet you,” said Caroline, who had thrown her mother’s apprehensions to the wind at the first sight of Emma. “This is my husband, Frederick.”

“Lord Wrotham,” supplied Colin in a murmur.

“How do?” said the large, phlegmatic earl. Tall, broad, and blond, he looked as if his whole mind was occupied with thoughts of dinner.

Warmed by the open friendliness in Caroline’s expression, and the lack of any hostility in her husband’s, Emma smiled. It was the first full smile she had given the group. There was a ripple of reaction. One of the young male cousins gasped audibly.

Radiant, thought the baroness. There was no other word for the wretched woman. This was disastrous.

They went through the line of cousins very quickly. At the end, Colin said, “And of course I do not need to introduce the rest of our party.”

Emma had prepared herself by this time. “Of course not. Father.” She inclined her head, but did not offer to kiss him.

“Good evening, my dear.” George Bellingham was beaming. “You’re looking very fine.”

“Thank you.”

Though several of the Warehams noticed the marked coolness in Emma’s voice, her father was oblivious to it. Nothing could penetrate the buoyancy of his mood tonight. This was the sort of marriage he had always imagined for his only daughter. And he was reveling in it.

“You might have to present me,” said Robin. “I was still in short coats when Emma…” Realizing that he was about to make a serious social error, Robin Bellingham blushed to the roots of his pale hair. “Er… married,” he choked out.

“But of course I know you,” said Emma warmly. “You are the image of our mother, Robin. How good to see you again.”

Her brother mumbled something and effaced himself, to Colin’s profound relief. It was like riding patrol in dangerous country, he thought. The room was simmering with potential flare-ups, and he was the one designated to see that none of them erupted. He steered Emma back toward Caroline.

The butler appeared and announced dinner. Two footmen followed close behind him. Taking up positions on either side of Lady Burrington’s great chair, they heaved her up and out of it. “Come along, Bellingham,” she commanded when she had gained her feet. “In honor of our coming relationship, you may take me in.”

Looking both gratified and a bit cowed, Emma’s father hurried forward to offer his arm. One of the footmen remained for support on her ladyship’s other side, and in this manner she led the way into the dining room.

Emma found herself seated between Lord Wrotham and the eldest of the male cousins, a plump, complacent man of fifty who looked like a cross between their hostess and a sheep. Colin was several chairs away, but so, she saw with gratitude, was his mother. She had no difficulty making conversation. Wrotham was happy to talk about the splendidly prepared food they were served, his two-year-old son, and hunting, which did not tax Emma’s knowledge, as he required little in the way of reply.

When the table turned, things grew more difficult. At first it seemed that the cousin had nothing at all to say for himself, and, like a sheep indeed, he shied from the innocuous questions Emma asked. But then she happened to hit upon the subject of paintings exhibited at the Royal Academy. The timid man brightened at once, and it emerged that he was a passionate collector of all sorts of art. From then on she only had to listen while he catalogued every piece he possessed, how he had come to find it, the intricate negotiations involved in acquiring it, and how beautifully it graced his walls or cabinets or vaults. The man had an amazing memory. It appeared that he had never forgotten a single detail having to do with his collection in thirty years.