“Absolutely. You are witnessing the subtle workings of the mind of a sophisticated male who is about to embark on a game that he has played many times and at which he is something of a master—the game of flirtation.”
Whitney rolled her eyes in laughing dismissal. “I have witnessed many of Stephen’s casual flirtations with countless young ladies, and he has never behaved like this. Normally, he would be right there with Emily’s other admirers, playing ‘the game,’ only being even more witty and more charming than any of them.”
“You’re exactly right,” Clayton agreed. “But this time, it is apparently important to Stephen that the young lady in question realize from the outset that she is not to mistake him as merely one more conquest in today’s flock of easy conquests.”
“Why is that so very important to him?” Whitney persisted.
“Because, my love,” he said as he pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, “Stephen doesn’t intend for this to be just another of his ‘casual flirtations.’ I think he’s decided that this game is one he wants to play for keeps.”
“That seems excessively impulsive of him, given his short acquaintance with her.”
In answer to that, Clayton regarded her in pointed silence, and when Whitney realized what he was thinking, she smothered a laugh. “Am I to assume that, when it comes to the matter of who you wish to wed, Westmoreland men are all shockingly impulsive?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?”
“I would say that we are superb judges of women and we know when we have met one who is not only extraordinary, but who is right for us. Until that time, no force on earth can propel us to the altar, but once we have met her, we are not only willing to walk down the aisle with her, we are quite determined to make certain she makes the journey with us.”
“No matter how opposed she might be to it at first,” Whitney finished for him.
“Exactly.”
She was still laughing at that when Stephen removed himself from the group with whom he’d been sitting, and with every appearance of complete nonchalance, picked up two glasses of champagne from a tray on a table. He paused briefly to chat with his mother, paused again to speak with a distant elderly cousin, and somehow managed to arrive at the fireplace where Emily was standing just as the group around her disbanded, leaving her with only an ancient elderly cousin for company.
Fascinated, Whitney watched him offer her one of the glasses, but what amazed her was that when he handed her the glass, Stephen said absolutely nothing to her. He simply looked at her, then he lifted his glass to his mouth and looked at her over the rim for a moment. Emily followed suit—except that even from several yards away, Whitney could see that Emily’s hand began to tremble when she lifted her own glass for a sip of champagne.
Unconsciously, Whitney held her breath while Emily lowered her glass and seemed unable to break away from Stephen’s gaze. He said something to her, something very brief. She hesitated, then she smiled, nodded her head, and laid her hand on Stephen’s arm.
From their vantage point, Whitney and Clayton watched Stephen escort her from the room.
Since Clayton had seemed so certain of what Stephen was thinking and doing before, Whitney said softly, “Where do you think he’s taking her?”
“The gallery,” Clayton replied unhesitatingly. “It’s on the second floor, which removes them from earshot of everyone down here, but it’s also in full view of the main floor, which means her reputation will remain untarnished and her father will remain unconcerned.”
In order to glimpse the gallery, one had only to stroll to the doorway of the drawing room, but it could not be seen from where Whitney stood. “You can’t possibly be so certain he’ll take her there,” Whitney said.
“Would you care to make a small wager?”
“How much do you have in mind?” Whitney countered.
Leaning over, Clayton whispered to her the forfeit he had in mind if she lost, and a rosy blush tinted her cheeks, but her smile was filled with love and warmth.
Without waiting for her decision, Clayton offered her his arm. Whitney laid her fingers on it and followed him to the doorway of the drawing room.
She lost the wager.
* * *
By the end of September, the entire ton was waiting for the announcement of a betrothal between Stephen Westmoreland and the Duke of Lansberry’s daughter. In the betting book at White’s the odds were twenty-five to one that the betrothal would be announced before the end of the year. In October, the odds dropped to twenty to one when the Duke and Lady Emily left England for a two-month trip to Spain.
39
* * *
By December, the London sky was always dark, the air filled with smoke from thousands of coal fires. For that reason, the ton preferred to pass the winter in the fresh air and comfort of their country houses. There, they entertained groups of friends who came to stay for a sennight or even a fortnight and enjoyed such pass-times as hunting and card-playing. Women with marriageable daughters planned wardrobes for the spring social season and discussed with their friends the relative merits of all the eligible bachelors.
In past years, Stephen Westmoreland’s name had been high on every Mama’s list of “Most Eligibles,” but now, he was considered “Unavailable.” As the time approached for Lady Emily to return from Spain, the rumors and conjecture about her betrothal to Stephen escalated to a fever-pitch at country estates all over England.
Some of the gossips were confident that the betrothal had already been arranged before the duke and his daughter left for Spain; others believed that the details of the betrothal were to be finalized as soon as Lady Emily returned, and that the marriage would take place before the new year.
The only issue up for real debate during those early winter gossip sessions was whether the marriage would be a small, festive family affair in December or whether it would be a huge social event, like the Duke of Claymore’s had been, and take place in the spring. No one had any doubt that a marriage was going to take place, for it was obvious to everyone that Stephen Westmoreland had finally met the woman he wanted for his wife.
Rumor had it that Stephen had not only given up his bachelor ways, he’d given up his mistress, Helene Devernay, in favor of becoming Lady Emily’s regular escort. He performed that role with a relaxed urbanity and charming dedication that made him seem even more desirable husband material to those mamas and daughters who’d cherished hopes of an alliance with him.
Lady Emily appeared to bloom in the warmth of Stephen’s attention. Whenever he accompanied her to a ball or rout or to the theatre, she displayed a happy spontaneity that made her not only approachable but positively radiant.
The Duke of Lansberry was believed to be the most fortunate father in England, for he was not only gaining a wealthy aristocrat of impeccable birth and reputation for a son-in-law, he was also gaining a coveted alliance with the Westmoreland family.
It was assumed that Lansberry was overjoyed at his good fortune, but in that regard, the ton could only make assumptions, for the duke rarely fraternized with other members of the nobility. He cared nothing for society or society’s amusements and only put in a perfunctory appearance at those events which protocol absolutely required him to attend. He left his remaining social and political duties to his two sons. His only interest was in his estates; he was a man of the land as his forebears had been, and with his characteristic bluntness, he made that known.
Although he owned a stately London townhouse and had acquired several splendid estates, he preferred to reside within the brooding solitude of Landsdowne, a sprawling country house constructed in the middle ages by one of his ancestors and added to by each successive generation in whatever style was popular at the time.
To Stephen, who had studied architecture, Landsdowne was an ill-proportioned, poorly-constructed, gloomy monstrosity. In fact, the only thing he liked about it was that it was less than an hour’s trip f
rom his mother’s house at Grand Oak.
Stephen had decided to spend the month of December there, partly because Whitney and Clayton and Lord and Lady Gilbert had gathered there to spend the holidays with his mother, but also because it would enable him to be closer to Emily, who had returned from Spain the day before. He had managed to spend a few minutes with her late yesterday, after she’d sent him a note to tell him she was home, but she had looked exhausted and he had ordered her to get some sleep.
Now, however, he was incredibly eager to spend the entire evening with her and to settle matters with her father. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew the magnificent emerald and diamond betrothal ring that he intended to slide onto Emily’s finger as soon as he’d spoken to Lansberry tonight. It glowed in the light of the coach—a jewel fit for a queen, acquired for the price of a king’s ransom. He didn’t care about the cost and he wasn’t concerned about his meeting with Lansberry, because he had no reason whatsoever to expect that the duke would have any objection to his suit.
A light dusting of snow was falling from a moonless sky as a footman rushed out of the house to assist Stephen’s coachman with the horses. Lansberry’s butler opened the front door and reached up to help divest Stephen of his heavy cloak. “Good evening, my lord,” the butler intoned. He handed the cloak to a footman and turned to lead the way across the cold flagstone floor of the main hall. “Lady Emily is awaiting you in the east drawing room.”
“I would like to have a word with his grace first,” Stephen said.
The butler stopped and turned. “I’m sorry, my lord, but his grace is away for the evening.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“He mentioned that he intended to have a few hands of cards with the Marquess of Glengarmon.”
“If he returns before I leave, please tell him that I would like to speak with him before he retires. I can find my own way to Lady Emily,” Stephen added as he turned and headed across the dimly lit hall and down a drafty corridor toward the east wing.
On the way, he tried to envision a convivial card game between Lansberry and Glengarmon, but it was beyond imagining. The two men were approximately the same age, but while Lansberry was forceful and brusque to the point of rudeness, William Lathrop, the Marquess of Glengarmon, was a straitlaced bachelor whose unbending formality and strict adherence to every social and political ritual made him the brunt of endless jokes. His ninety-year-old father was still clinging to life—and to the cherished ducal title that should have passed to Lathrop years before.
All those thoughts vanished completely as Stephen neared the drawing room and the beautiful girl he loved. Girl. Even though Emily was nearly twenty and possessed a grace and elegance that made her seem almost aloof to strangers, Stephen knew that underneath that façade was a winsome girl who was intimidated by her father and confused by all the attention her stunning looks had brought her when she first appeared in English society. She was warm, intelligent, and well-read. She challenged, amused, and excited Stephen and at the same time she brought out a wide streak of fierce protectiveness in him.
He opened the door of the drawing room and caught his breath at the sight of her. Emily was bending by the fire, stoking the flames with a poker, the firelight turning her hair to molten gold as it spilled over her shoulders and back.
Smiling, she stood up and put the poker aside. “I was trying to stir embers into flames,” she explained with a laugh as he crossed to her.
“You could do that with a smile,” Stephen said.
He waited for her to catch his meaning and he knew the moment she did, then he watched her try to pretend she didn’t know at all. “You’re looking very well,” she told him.
Stephen was tired of cat-and-mouse games. He was in love with her and he knew damned well she was in love with him. He realized their two-month separation was making her feel a little awkward, but he was adamantly unwilling to let her retreat behind the same barrier of formality that he had spent weeks dismantling before she went away. In reply to her comment about the way he looked, Stephen said pointedly, “My looks haven’t changed since last evening.”
“Yes, but you were only here for a few minutes, and . . . and I suppose I didn’t really have a chance to . . . to really study you.”
Instead of going to her and taking her in his arms, which he knew was what she expected, he propped a shoulder against the fireplace mantel and folded his arms over his chest. “Then take all the time you need to scrutinize me.”
She looked completely taken aback. “On the other hand,” Stephen said with a slight smile, “you could put that time to better use and study me at much closer range.” He unfolded his arms and opened them to her. Emily hesitated, then she laughed and rushed into his waiting embrace.
Many minutes later, Stephen reluctantly lifted his mouth from hers and forced his hands to leave her breasts. Sliding his arms around her, he held her crushed to him while Emily laid her flushed cheek against his chest. He smiled over her shoulder, his body rigid with desire, his heart filled with delight at the passionate response he could always awaken in her. Lifting his head, he tipped her chin up and smiled into her languourous violet eyes. “I know your father is away from home, but I asked the butler to tell him when he returns that I’d like to have a word with him tonight.”
Her answering smile froze and her body stiffened. “A word with him about what?”
“About you,” Stephen replied with puzzled amusement. “It’s time to prove to your father, and to the gossips, that my intentions are completely honorable.”
“But you don’t care about gossip, you’ve said so yourself!”
More intrigued than alarmed by her reaction, Stephen tenderly brushed his knuckles over her smooth cheek. “I care about gossip that affects you,” he said gently, “and there will be plenty of it—all of it unpleasant—if we don’t announce our betrothal now that you’re back in England. We were constantly in each other’s company before you left, and the partiality you showed to me will cause a scandal if we don’t act very soon.”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. The only one who matters is my father, and he never hears any gossip. We can go on just as we’ve been doing!”
“Like hell we can.” Stunned by her irrational attitude and her apparent naïveté, he caught her by the shoulders. “Emily,” he said bluntly “at the risk of seeming inexcusably crude, I have to ask you if you understand the definition of the physical act of lovemaking.”
She flushed and nodded and tried to pull away from his grasp, but he held her imprisoned. “Then you also ought to understand that going on as we have been is not an option. The passion we’ve shared in this room leads to a bed chamber. My bed chamber. I want you there, as my wife. Answer me, Emily,” he said, watching her intently. “Are you in love with me?”
“Yes, but I can’t marry you!”
“Why in hell not!”
“Because my father has betrothed me to Glengarmon!”
Stephen stepped back as if scorched by the words. “When?” he snapped.
“The night before we left for Spain.”
She was so overwrought that she was beginning to tremble and wring her hands, and Stephen struggled to keep his rage under control for her sake. “The idea is unthinkable, obscene. He can’t force you to marry that old man. I won’t allow it.”
“You have no choice and neither do I. Glengarmon’s land marches with ours, and my father wants that land. He’s wanted it forever, as did his father, and his father’s father. The only way he can have it is by marrying me to Glengarmon. Glengarmon wants me badly enough to agree that the land and house would be transferred to me as part of the marriage settlement. I will have it as a dower house.”
“This whole conversation is insane, and so must your father be. But you aren’t insane, Emily. Your father can’t compel you to wed the old fool.”
“It is a daughter’s duty to wed in accordance with her family’s wishes.
Everyone knows that. You know it, too,” she cried.
“I’ll tell you what I know—I know that no father has the right to martyr his own daughter by wedding her to a disgusting, passionless old man for the sake of a few acres of dirt. And I am going to tell him that to his face tonight!”
“Stephen,” she said brokenly. “Even if you could persuade him of that, which you can’t, you could never persuade him to let me wed you.”
“Don’t underestimate my powers of persuasion.”
Tears spilled from her eyes and raced down her cheeks. “Don’t give either of us false hopes, because you won’t succeed. You can’t succeed. Can’t you see—don’t you understand—?”
“Understand what?”
“My father is a duke. Glengarmon will be a duke when his father dies. My father wants me wed to him for that reason, but if Glengarmon died tomorrow, he still wouldn’t let me marry you. He’d look around for another suitor with the loftiest possible title.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing. “Oh, God, how could you do this to me? How will I live with Glengarmon, knowing that you truly wanted me for your wife? I knew the gossips were saying that you did, but they—they also said there were many girls who’d believed you—you were going to offer for them, and you never did.”
Her tears were soaking through the front of his shirt, and Stephen laid his hand against her face, holding it pressed to his heart. “Don’t cry like this, sweetheart, you’ll make yourself ill. I’ll find a way to work this out, you’ll see.”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “You were like a fairytale prince to me—handsome, gallant, and as unattainable and as out of reach as yesterday’s dream. I never let myself think that you really loved me.”
Stephen’s reply was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded impatiently.
“A footman from Grand Oak has delivered a message for you, my lord,” the butler replied. “He says it is of the utmost urgency.”