“What do you mean?”
“Did you love him?”
“Love is not a consideration in a fashionable marriage.” She bit her lip.
“No? Then you do not miss him.”
She closed her eyes and remembered laughing blue eyes that had teased. Soft, pale hands that had been unbearably gentle. A tenor voice that had talked and talked about dogs and horses and phaetons. Then she remembered that pale face, unnaturally drawn, all the laughter gone, lying against black satin in a casket. She didn’t want those memories. They were too painful.
“No.” She turned blindly to the house and a way out of this too-close garden and the man who stalked her. “No, I do not miss my husband.”
Chapter Six
Well! The king was very grateful to the guard who had saved his life single-handedly. All hailed Iron Heart as a hero, and he was immediately made the captain of the king’s guard. But though everyone asked the valiant captain his name, he would not say a word. This stubborn refusal to speak rather vexed the king, who was a man used to having his own way in such matters. However, even that little worry was put aside when one day the king was out riding and a terrible troll decided to make the king his lunch. Clang! Thump! Iron Heart charged forward and soon separated the troll’s head from his body....
—from Iron Heart
Emeline awoke to the curtains being pulled back on her bed. She blinked sleepily up into the face of Harris, her lady’s maid. Harris was a wooden-faced woman of at least five decades with a large, bulbous nose that dominated the rest of her more-petite features. Emeline knew of many ladies who complained that their personal maids spent too much time gossiping and flirting with the menservants in the household.
Such was not the case with Harris.
“There is a Mr. Hartley waiting in the downstairs hall for you, my lady,” Harris said stonily.
Emeline glanced blearily at her bedroom window. The light seemed quite pale. “What?”
“He says that he has an appointment with you, and he will not leave until he sees you.”
She sat up. “What time is it?”
Harris pursed her lips. “A quarter of eight, my lady.”
“Good Lord. Whatever is he about?” Emeline threw back the covers and searched for her slippers. “He must be mad. No one comes calling at eight o’clock.”
“Yes, my lady.” Harris bent to help her with her slippers.
“Not even nine o’clock,” Emeline muttered, thrusting her arms into the wrapper Harris held for her. “Really, anything before eleven is suspect, and I myself would never bother before two o’clock. Quite, quite mad.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Emeline became conscious now of tuneless whistling. “What is that noise?”
“Mr. Hartley is whistling in the downstairs hall, my lady,” Harris said.
For a moment, Emeline stared at her maid, speechless. The whistling crested on a particularly horrific note. Emeline rushed from her room and out into the upper hall. She marched down the hall and to the banister that overlooked the downstairs entry. Mr. Hartley was standing with his hands behind his back, holding his tricorne. As she watched, he idly rocked back on his heels and whistled through his teeth.
“Hist!” Emeline leaned over the banister.
Mr. Hartley whirled and looked up at her. “Good morning, my lady!” He gave a little bow. The man looked fresh and alarmingly alert for so early in the morning.
“Have you gone stark, raving mad?” Emeline demanded. “What are you doing in my hall this early?”
“I’ve come to take you to Wedgwood’s business offices to help me order pottery.”
She scowled. “I never—”
“You’ll need to dress.” His gaze wandered to her chest. “Not that I mind your present attire.”
Emeline slapped a hand to her bosom. “How dare—”
“Wait here, shall I?” And he began that awful whistling again, this time even louder.
Emeline opened her mouth, realized that he wouldn’t be able to hear anything over the noise coming out between his lips, and shut it again. She gathered her skirts and stomped back to her room. Harris had already laid out a flame-colored watered silk, and Emeline was clothed and coiffed in scandalously little time. Even so, Mr. Hartley was peering at the hall clock when she descended the stairs.
He glanced at her rather perfunctorily. “Took you long enough. Come on, I don’t want to be late to see Mr. Bentley—Mr. Wedgwood’s partner.”
Emeline frowned as he hustled her out the door. “When is your appointment?”
“Nine o’clock.” Mr. Hartley handed her into the waiting carriage.
She narrowed her eyes at him when he sat across from her. “But you came for me before eight o’clock.”
“I thought it might take you a while to get ready.” He smiled at her, his coffee-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” He rapped on the roof.
“You take too much for granted,” Emeline said frostily.
“Only with you, ma’am. Only with you.” His voice was low and soft and disconcertingly intimate.
Emeline glanced out the window so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “Why is that?”
There was a silence and for a moment she thought he might avoid the question.
“I don’t know why you affect me like this,” he said finally. “I think you’d as well ask a catamount why it runs after a fleeing deer as ask me why I quicken when you’re near.”
Her gaze jerked around to his. He watched her with a purely male gaze, frank and assessing. It should’ve made her afraid, being the subject of such a perusal. Instead it thrilled her. “Then you admit it.”
He shrugged. “Why not? It’s purely instinctive, I assure you.”
She twitched at a ribbon on the front of her gown. “You must be quite at a loss if your instincts cause you this problem whenever you’re near a lady.”
“I already told you, remember?” He leaned forward and wrapped his hand around her fingers, stilling her agitated teasing of the ribbon. “This happens only with you.”
Emeline looked down at their fingers. She should snap at him. Set him down properly and let him know that he’d gone too far with his familiarity. But the sight of his brown fingers wrapped around and cradling her own smaller, white ones was mesmerizing somehow. The carriage bumped around a curve, and he withdrew his hand.
She smoothed out the ribbon. “Haven’t you a man of business?”
“Yes, Mr. Kitcher. But he’s a rather dry old man. I thought you’d be better company.”
She snorted softly at that. “Where are these offices?”
“Not far,” he said. “They’ve rented part of a warehouse.”
Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together in her lap. “Mr. Wedgwood and Mr. Bentley haven’t showrooms?”
“No. They’re relatively new to the trade. Part of the reason I hope to get a bargain from them.”
“Mmm.” Emeline looked at him curiously. Mr. Hartley’s eyes were narrowed and alert as if he were readying for battle. “You like this.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What?”
She waved a hand vaguely. “Trade. Doing business. The hunt of finding a good bargain.”
His sensuous lips curved. “Of course. But I trust you won’t give me away to Bentley.”
Then the carriage was drawing up next to a warehouse. Mr. Hartley jumped down as soon as the steps were set and turned to help Emeline.
She looked at the plain brick and wood building doubtfully. “What do you want me to do?”
“Simply give me your opinion.” He tucked her hand into his elbow as a gentleman in curled wig and rust-colored coat came out of one of the warehouse’s doors.
“Mr. Hartley?” the man exclaimed in a Northern accent. “An honor, sir, an honor to meet your acquaintance. I am Thomas Bentley.”
Mr. Hartley took Mr. Bentley’s hand and shook it. This close, Emeline could see that Mr. Be
ntley was younger than she had thought—probably not much above thirty years. His face was florid and his middle just a little stout. Mr. Hartley introduced her, and the pottery merchant’s eyes widened when he heard her title.
“Lady Emeline. Why, this is an honor, ma’am; it is indeed. Won’t you take a dish of tea? I’ve just purchased some from India that’s quite nice.”
Emeline smiled at the man, murmuring her assent, and Mr. Bentley showed them into the warehouse. The building soared overhead, dark and cool. She could smell sawdust and damp bricks. Half the space was packed with barrels and crates, but Mr. Bentley led them into a smaller office off the main room. The office was just large enough for a wide desk, some chairs, and a stack of boxes against the wall. In one corner was a small hearth with a kettle already steaming.
“Here we are, then,” he said cheerfully as he held a chair for Emeline. “I’ll just get the tea, shall I?”
“Will Mr. Wedgwood be joining us?” Mr. Hartley asked. He had chosen to remain standing.
“Ah, no,” Mr. Bentley said as he squinted over the pot of tea. “Mr. Wedgwood is the master potter, whilst I am the businessman. He is presently overseeing the making of the pottery in Burslem. There we are.” Mr. Bentley said this last as he set the tea on the desk. He’d had to stack several ledger books on the floor to make room. The man blinked nervously at Mr. Hartley.
But the American merely nodded and raised a brow at her. Emeline sat forward to pour the tea. She wasn’t sure, exactly, of the undercurrents of this meeting, and she didn’t want to upset Mr. Hartley’s position. At the same time, she was intrigued by how he would act in this, his own world. Right now he seemed very still, his expression relaxed but giving nothing away. Mr. Bentley, in contrast, was beginning to look worried. Emeline hid a smile as she sipped her tea. She had the feeling that Mr. Hartley was deliberately making his opponent unsure of his position.
For the next several minutes, the two gentlemen and Emeline took tea and made small talk. She knew that Mr. Hartley must be impatient to see the pottery he wanted to buy, but he didn’t let his impatience show on his face. He leaned on a corner of the desk and sipped his tea as pleasantly as if he were visiting a maiden aunt.
Mr. Bentley shot him several worried looks and then finally put down his teacup. “Would you like to see some of our pottery, sir?”
Mr. Hartley nodded and set aside his own teacup. The pottery merchant went to one of the wooden boxes against the wall and opened the lid, revealing a mass of straw.
Emeline couldn’t help but lean forward. She’d never before thought much about the plates she used—save that they be of the newest design—but now pottery seemed a most important affair. Mr. Hartley shot a glance at her behind Mr. Bentley’s back. He almost imperceptably shook his head once. Emeline wrinkled her nose at him, feeling as if she’d been reproved like a small child. However, she sat back and smoothed her features into an expression of ennui. Mr. Hartley’s mouth twitched as if he found her enthusiasm amusing, and he winked at her. Emeline tilted her nose away from him. She’d have to set the man down. Later.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bentley had carefully removed a layer of straw. Underneath was a lidded jar in the shape of a pineapple with a dark green glaze. Mr. Bentley handed the jar to Mr. Hartley, who took it and examined it without speaking. He brought the jar over and stood it on the desk in front of Emeline, watching as she bent to examine it.
Mr. Bentley was unearthing more pottery, teapots, dishes, cups, bowls, and tureens. Indeed, all manner of pottery soon filled the desk, most glazed a deep green and many in the shapes of cauliflowers or pineapples.
Mr. Hartley cocked an eyebrow at Emeline while Mr. Bentley’s back was turned. She elevated her own eyebrows in return. The fact was that the pottery was all very nice and well made, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Mr. Hartley gave a slight nod and turned to the other man. “I believe that Mr. Wedgwood has some newer pieces?”
Mr. Bentley paused, still bent over the crate. “Ah, I’m not sure....”
“I was told that he is working on some very fine creamware.” Mr. Hartley met the pottery merchant’s eyes and smiled.
“Well, as to that...” Mr. Bentley darted a look at a small crate by itself in the corner of the office. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Wedgwood is indeed experimenting with a creamware, but he is not yet ready to show it publicly. He hopes, in fact, to present it to the queen first.”
Emeline clapped her hands. “Really, Mr. Bentley, how exciting!”
The merchant’s face became even ruddier. “Thank you, ma’am. It is indeed.”
“But won’t you let us see this wonderful pottery?” Emeline leaned a little forward, letting her bosom swell over her square-cut bodice. “Please?”
The man turned red, and Emeline nearly grinned. She would never admit it in a million years, but she was enjoying this whole exchange enormously. Who knew trade could be such a battle of wits?
“Ah...” Mr. Bentley took out a handkerchief and swiped it nervously over his glistening brow. He shrugged. “Why not? If it pleases you, my lady.”
“Oh, it does.”
Having made up his mind, the merchant went to the small box in the corner and pried off the lid. He reached inside and took out something with great care before turning with it in his hands. Emeline held her breath. The teapot was very plain. As its name proclaimed, it was a rich cream color, almost yellowish, with straight classical lines and a pretty little spout.
Emeline held out her hands. “May I?”
The merchant placed it in her hands, and Emeline felt the lightness of the piece; the clay was thinner than she was used to. She turned it over to look at the maker’s mark. Wedgwood was stamped on the bottom.
“This is quite elegant,” she murmured softly.
She looked up in time to see Mr. Hartley watching her, and her breath caught. His eyes were hooded, his lips straight, but he had a possessive air about him. Somehow she knew: It pleased him that she shared in the discovery of the creamware teapot. Just as much as it pleased her. She and Mr. Hartley made an extraordinarily well-matched team. The thought made her uneasy. She shouldn’t enjoy bargaining. She shouldn’t like knowing that he valued her opinion.
She shouldn’t care at all.
Mr. Hartley’s eyes had narrowed. There was no pity there. Not one trace of compassion. It was as if a tame tomcat suddenly showed the catamount that lurked always beneath the purring facade. As if she was his prey.
He nodded once and turned to discuss terms with Mr. Bentley. The civilized veneer was back in place, but Mr. Bentley was having to marshal all his wits to keep up with the American’s hard bargaining, and the sums of money that Mr. Hartley so casually mentioned were enough to raise even Emeline’s eyebrows. She had no doubt that this was the man who had made a fortune out of his uncle’s business in only four years.
As the men haggled, Emeline bent over the teapot, tracing its elegant lines, and thought about the ladies of the Colonies who would pour tea from the pretty little spout. And she wondered: Why exactly had Mr. Hartley brought her here?
What had he meant to show her besides a beautiful teapot?
“IT’S JUST THAT I’m not sure about the neckline.” Rebecca stared into the mirror and tried without success to tug up the material at her bodice. There seemed to be a vast amount of her own skin revealed in the mirror.
“It’s quite all right, miss.” Her maid, Evans, didn’t even glance up as she bustled about the room, collecting the debris from Rebecca’s toilet.
Rebecca tugged one more time at her bodice and then gave up. Evans had been personally recommended by Lady Emeline, and if the maid said it was required that Rebecca go to her first London ball nude, Rebecca would follow her suggestion. She’d been to many dances and social events in Boston, of course, but Lady Emeline had made it quite clear that a London ball was an entirely different matter.
All this trouble over her only served to make Rebecca feel guilty. It’d been sh
e who had badgered Samuel into taking her on this trip. Now, he apparently felt obliged to spend great sums of money on her so she’d be entertained in London. It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she begged to accompany him. All she’d wanted was to spend some time with him. Perhaps learn to know her older brother just a little better. Rebecca wandered over to a chair as she thought.
“No,” the maid called.
Rebecca froze in an unladylike half-crouch over the chair.
Evans gave a strained smile. “We don’t want to wrinkle our skirts, do we?”
Rebecca straightened. “But when I sit in the carriage, surely—”
“Can’t be helped, can it?” the maid chirped. “More’s the pity, really. I don’t know why these clever gentlemen don’t invent a method for a lady to travel to a ball standing up.”
“Oh, yes?” Rebecca murmured faintly.
Evans was a small, dark-haired woman who was dauntingly fashionable. Her panniers were so wide, she could hardly do her duties as maid. Actually, Rebecca was rather terrified of her.
Although the maid seemed to be trying to be friendly. “Perhaps we can go downstairs and rest in the small sitting room? Not in the hallway, of course. A lady should never be seen to hang about waiting for her carriage to arrive.”
“Of course.” Rebecca turned to the door, feeling rather relieved.
“Remember, we mustn’t sit!” her maid caroled after her.
“I wonder if we will be allowed to use the necessary,” Rebecca muttered to herself as she negotiated the stairs in her wide skirts.
She looked about guiltily to see if anyone had overheard her crass remark. The only person she could see was a single footman—the black-haired one—in the downstairs hall, and he stared straight ahead, apparently deaf to all that went on around him. Rebecca blew out a breath of relief. She continued down the stairs without incident until she came to the last step. There she somehow caught her heel on her hem and had a bad moment when she teetered ungracefully until she caught the banister with both hands. She froze, still clutching the wooden ball at the end of the stair banister, and glanced over at the footman. He was now looking at her, one foot forward as if he’d been about to leap to her rescue. When their gazes met, he withdrew his foot and resumed staring forward woodenly.