And Then He Kissed Her Page 4

  He looked at his eldest sister, saw the little smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and he realized she’d had Felicity Abernathy in mind all along.

  “She is lovely, isn’t she?” Vivian chimed in. “She has black hair, if I remember. And dark eyes. That sort of coloring makes jewel tones so stunning on her.”

  “She’s hot-tempered, though,” Phoebe cautioned, but even in profile, Harry could see the smile she was trying to hide. “Latin blood in that side of the family, so they say.”

  Sisters were the very devil. They knew all a man’s weaknesses. Harry wondered if he could go off and lease a cottage in America.

  During the week that followed, Emma did not dwell much upon her impending birthday, but the night before it arrived, she dreamt of silk. Rich and shimmery silk taffeta, made up in a sumptuous ball gown that rustled when she moved and had those enormous puffy sleeves so fashionable just now. Green silk, it was, with a figured design of blue and green beads on the skirt that shimmered in the light from the chandeliers overhead.

  Chandeliers? Yes, she was at a ball, and a waltz was being played. She was dancing with a man. Odd how she couldn’t see his face—that was a blur—but he was making her laugh, and she liked that. Suddenly there was a fan in her hand, a lavish, exotic fan of peacock feathers. She opened it and gave the man a flirtatious glance over the top, delighting in the feel of the feathers tickling her nose.

  Emma woke up to find Mr. Pigeon’s face inches from hers, his long cat whiskers brushing her nose. He gave a loud meow of greeting, and this abrupt change of scene made her close her eyes, but when she opened them again, there was no mistaking the orange tabby curled up beside her on the pillow.

  She’d been dreaming, she realized. And such an absurd dream when all was said and done. Why, silk taffeta was outrageously expensive! And how on earth could one waltz with a man and wave that enormous fan about at the same time? Still, she couldn’t help feeling a wistful little pang that the beautiful gown and handsome man were not real.

  The fan, though…the fan was a different matter. It was real. Such a lovely thing, with its long feathers, carved ivory handle, and blue silk tassel. She’d seen it in that little curiosity shop on Regent Street, the same shop where she’d found Lady Phoebe’s Limoges box. It was the sort of shop where sham lapis beads for three pence a strand sat beside bejeweled Charles I snuffboxes worth hundreds of pounds, just the sort of shop that would possess a fan like that. A fan that cost two guineas, she reminded herself. An outrageous price for such a frivolous thing.

  Emma turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, her gaze moving beyond the butter-yellow walls of her flat on Little Russell Street to the far-flung outposts of the Empire. She thought of the stories of the Arabian Nights and places with names like Ceylon and Kashmir, where the air was full of spices and the sound of sitars, where there were marketplaces filled with thick Persian carpets and colorful China silks. Looking at that fan through the dusty glass of a display case in a Regent Street antique shop had made her feel, just for a moment, as beautiful and exotic as Scheherazade. Emma gave a dreamy sigh.

  Mr. Pigeon nuzzled her ear, purring loudly, and she gave up on fantasies of being Scheherazade. Instead, she gave the animal an affectionate rub with the side of her face, liking the feel of his soft fur against her cheek. Then she sat up, pushing aside the counterpane.

  The cat made a protesting meow as she got out of bed. “I know, I know,” she said in reply, “but I have to go to work.” She gave him a glance of mock sternness over her shoulder as she padded across the wood floor in her bare feet. “I cannot laze about napping all day like some.”

  Unimpressed, Mr. Pigeon yawned and settled himself more comfortably on her pillow. As always, Emma allowed him to remain there while she went about her morning routine, leaving the making of the bed until the very last thing.

  She poured water from the white stoneware pitcher into the bowl and reached for the jar of Pears’ Soap. After washing, she dressed in a crisp white shirtwaist, dark blue skirt, and her black leather high-button shoes, then drew back the curtains.

  After sitting down in front of the washstand, she unraveled the long braid of her hair and picked up her hairbrush.

  In the mirror, Emma watched the brush move through her waist-length hair, and the sight of its mother-of-pearl back was always a bittersweet reminder of her aunt. One hundred strokes to make it shine, Aunt Lydia had told her from the time she was fifteen. Papa, had he been alive by that time to hear his sister-in-law’s advice, would have deemed such time in front of a mirror sinfully vain.

  Perhaps it was vain, but Emma did like her hair this way. Most of the time it just looked brown, rather the color of bread crust. But loose like this, a little wavy from the braid, with the sunlight shining on it through the window, the color seemed coppery red, not humdrum brown.

  That green silk dress, she thought, would have been lovely. Ah, well.

  Emma twisted her hair into a chignon at the back of her head, pinned it, and added a pair of pewter combs to be doubly sure the heavy knot would stay in place all day. Satisfied, she started to stand up, then stopped, remembering.

  Today was her birthday.

  Sinking back down, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was thirty.

  She told herself she didn’t look as old as that. She told herself the freckles across her nose and cheekbones, freckles no amount of lemon juice could ever remove, made her seem younger. Ordinary hazel eyes in a long, oval face stared back at her, eyes surrounded by lashes that weren’t dark enough to matter and bracketed by tiny lines that hadn’t been there a year ago. She lifted her hand and traced her fingertips over the three faint parallel grooves across her forehead.

  Discontent returned again to plague her, and Emma jerked her hand down. Any more of this mooning about, and she’d be late. She got up and left the bedroom. Since it was already past eight o’clock she’d missed breakfast in the dining room downstairs, but if she was quick about it, she’d have time to make herself a cup of tea before catching an omnibus to work.

  After drawing back the curtains of her parlor, she heated water from the pitcher on her tiny stove-lamp and nibbled on shortbread as she waited for it to boil. She made her tea, and as it steeped, the scent of jasmine and orange peel wafted up to her nostrils.

  Ceylon. Kashmir. Green silk. Scheherazade.

  Absurd, she scoffed, to pay two guineas for a peacock fan, even on her birthday. More than half a week’s wages for something she would never have the opportunity to use? Ridiculous.

  But she thought about that fan all the way to work.

  Chapter 3

  A true lady always behaves with restraint. She is cheerful, understanding, and sensible. She does not give way to displays of emotion, lose her temper, or make a scene.

  Mrs. Lydia Worthington’s advice

  to her niece, 1880

  Newspapers were not only a significant part of Harry’s livelihood, they had other uses as well, refuge being the most important this morning.

  It was terribly rude, he supposed, to hold up a newspaper as a wall between oneself and one’s house guests, but he didn’t care. There were limits to what a man could endure, and with four additional women at his breakfast table, women his sisters considered marriage prospects for him, a man had to hide somewhere. The morning after his return from Berkshire, Harry chose to hide behind a copy of Barringer’s Social Gazette.

  Fortunately, breakfast in his house hold was a casual affair of warming dishes on the sideboard and everyone helping themselves at their leisure. Even though it was becoming more acceptable to conduct the first meal of the day in this manner, his house hold had been doing it this way for years. His mother had long ago given up any hope he would keep to a regular house hold routine. Today, the casual atmosphere enabled Harry to both ignore his guests and get work done at the same time.

  It was really no wonder the Gazette and its owner were in financial trouble, he thought as he mu
nched on a slice of bacon. For such staid, dull stuff as this, one might just as well read the Times.

  A single feminine voice rose just enough to be heard above the rest. “What is your opinion, Lord Marlowe?”

  The room fell silent, and Harry pulled down the newspaper just far enough to meet the melting dark gaze of Lady Felicity. She was beautiful, no denying it, but then, Diana knew his tastes well enough. If Felicity were not a young lady, his interest might be sparked, but young ladies were dangerous creatures. They expected marriage.

  He gave her a polite smile. “My apologies, but I was not paying attention to the conversation.” He rustled the Gazette. “I am engaged in a most important task at present.”

  “An important task?” She gestured to the paper in his hands. “Is the day’s news so important, then?”

  “To Harry it is,” Vivian told her, laughing. “He’s always reading the papers of his competitors.”

  “Though not usually at breakfast,” his grandmother pointed out, her voice heavy with disapproval which Harry chose to ignore.

  He took another look at Felicity over the top of the Gazette. “You see, Lady Felicity,” he explained, “reading the newspapers of my competitors is crucial to my financial success. Staying one step ahead and that sort of thing. I am a man of business, and I enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy it?” Felicity began to laugh. “You tease me, Lord Marlowe.”

  “Indeed, I do not. I enjoy it far more than my estate. Collecting land rents is a bore. And very unprofitable. I prefer business.”

  She knew she’d made a blunder, and she attempted to smooth it over. “You prefer your business affairs to your estate? How…” She paused, floundering for a moment. “How very modern.”

  Harry saw Diana wince, and he lifted his newspaper again, grinning. So she’d thought Lady Felicity the perfect wife for him? He was really going to enjoy ragging Di about this later. “Yes, well, I am a very modern sort of fellow,” he murmured in his best self-deprecating fashion.

  Ignoring his grandmother’s sound of exasperation, he glanced at the clock on the mantel and gave an exclamation of mock surprise. “Half past nine already?” He folded the paper and stood up, doing his best to look apologetic. “Forgive me, ladies, but I must go earn my living.”

  “Don’t be late this evening, dear,” his mother said as he gathered the stack of newspapers and the morning post the butler had placed beside his plate. “We’re having music after dinner. Nan is going to sing for us.”

  He gave the musically inclined Lady Nan a smile. “How lovely, Mama. I shall do my best, but I’m afraid I can’t promise something won’t come up to detain me.” He bowed and was out the door before Louisa could reply. Giving a deep sigh of relief, he walked from the dining room to the foyer.

  “My carriage, Jackson,” he instructed, “and fetch me when it arrives. I’ll be in my study.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The butler signaled for a footman, and Harry crossed the foyer to his study, where he promptly dropped the Social Gazette into the wastepaper basket. He’d read as much of its pompous self-importance as he could stomach for one morning. First thing he’d do when he bought the thing was liven it up. And he was determined to buy it. He was convinced if he gave it a more modern slant, he could make it profitable. And its location, a four-story brick building right across from his own offices, was perfect for expansion. Of course, scoring over Barringer had a sweet satisfaction all its own. Sooner or later, the earl would have to give in. It was only a matter of time.

  He opened his dispatch case, intending to place the newspapers of his other competitors inside so that he could read them on the way to his offices, but he paused at the sight of a stack of manuscript pages tied with twine.

  Miss Dove’s new book.

  He’d promised to look the thing over while in Berkshire, but upon his arrival there, he’d promptly forgotten all about it, deeming fishing a far more amusing pastime than anything written by Miss Dove. It would take about ten minutes for his driver to bring his carriage around front from the mews. That, he knew from previous experience with Miss Dove’s manuscripts, was about nine and one-half minutes more than he needed to keep his promise and verify what he already suspected.

  He pulled the manuscript out of his dispatch case, sat down at his desk, and untied the twine. Then he curled his fingers under a section of the stack and opened it to a random page.

  The tiniest flat, possessed of not a single ray of afternoon sunlight to brighten it, can be transformed into a most inviting nest at very little cost, if the girl-bachelor employs her innate good sense and ingenuity. And, of course, if she knows where to shop.

  Harry closed the manuscript. Dull as a scullery maid’s dishrag, just as he’d known it would be. Poor Miss Dove just couldn’t seem to understand that nobody wanted to read this sort of piffle.

  He tied up the twine, put the manuscript back in his case, and pulled out his appointment book, which had been delivered to his doorstep yesterday in anticipation of his return, with all his engagements listed in his secretary’s perfect copperplate script.

  He grimaced at the first notation. A meeting with his book editors. That monthly conference was always such a delight. Harry thought about giving it a miss altogether—after all, he did own the company. But if he wasn’t there to keep them in line, his editors would run amok, deciding to publish God only knows what. It didn’t bear thinking about. When Jackson announced his carriage was out front, Harry accepted his hat, resigned himself to the inevitable, and went to his offices. Because of his hasty departure from the breakfast table, he arrived at his offices on Bouverie Street well ahead of his meeting.

  Miss Dove stood up when he came in. “Good morning, sir,” she greeted him. “You are early today.”

  “Shocking, I know,” he said. “Domestic difficulties, Miss Dove.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. There are several good agencies, if your house keeper or butler is short of domestic staff. I can—”

  “Not that sort of domestic difficulty. This particular problem won’t be solved by an agency, I fear, unless you can find one that will locate husbands for all my sisters and get them out of my house.” He paused, as if considering the matter. “My mother, too, now that I think on it. She could be married off. A Scottish peer, for choice. Scotland’s a long way from here, two days’ train, at least.”

  “Overnight, if one takes the express.” Miss Dove always accepted everything he said at face value and responded accordingly, a fact which had long ago forced Harry to conclude his secretary had no sense of humor.

  “I believe there are one or two agencies that facilitate the finding of a spouse,” she went on doubtfully, “but I would not have thought your sisters needed assistance of that sort. And isn’t your eldest sister already affianced to Lord Rathbourne?”

  Smiling, he leaned a bit closer to her over the desk. “I was having you on, Miss Dove.”

  “Oh.” Her expression did not change. “I see,” she said in the tone of one who clearly didn’t.

  Harry gave it up. Teasing his secretary was pointless, for she never understood it. In any case, he was only trying to stave off the bad news he had to give her as long as possible.

  Taking a deep breath, he set his leather dispatch case on her desk, unfastened the buckle, and opened it. “I looked at your new book,” he said as he pulled out her manuscript, “but I’m afraid this one still has the same problem as the others. For one particular etiquette book to make a profit, it has to be fresh and different, it has to stand out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her lips pressed together in disappointment, and she ducked her head to hide it. “I understand, but I had hoped—”

  “Yes, I know,” he cut her off, wanting this over as quickly as possible. He held out the twine-tied stack of paper. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at it for a moment, then took it from his hand and put it in a drawer of her desk. “Would you like your coffee now?”

  “Yes, thank yo
u.”

  She duly brought his coffee, just the way he liked it, strong, hot, and with no milk or sugar. After that, he dictated some correspondence to her until the editors came upstairs for their meeting with him. Three hours later, he ushered the other two men out into the corridor, acting genial even as he wondered in exasperation why editors could never seem to grasp the financial considerations of publishing. They unerringly passed up the salable book for the book of literary brilliance, a trait that always left Harry baffled at the end of each monthly meeting. If a book didn’t have mass appeal, he didn’t care how beautiful its metaphors or how subtle its literary allusions or how profound its theme, he wasn’t going to publish it.

  As he came back into his own suite of offices, he found his secretary putting on her hat.

  “Going now, Miss Dove?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ducked his head to peer beneath the wide straw brim of her bonnet. “No hard feelings, I hope?” he asked, looking into her face.

  “Of course not,” she answered with a bright, forced sort of cheerfulness. “I comprehend your reasons for rejecting my work, but I shall not be discouraged.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her not to bother. “That’s the spirit. Persistence pays off, so they say.”

  “I intend to regard this as just one more no out of the way,” she went on as she put on her gloves. “Getting all the no’s out of the way will eventually lead to a yes, as Mrs. Bartleby says.”

  “Who?”

  She paused, looking at him in puzzlement. “Mrs. Bartleby,” she repeated, her tone conveying that he was supposed to know the name.

  He frowned, trying to remember if he’d ever heard of any woman named Bartleby. After a moment, he shook his head. “Sorry, Miss Dove, but I don’t know her.”

  “But—” She broke off and stared at him, her hazel eyes wide and her lips parted, her puzzlement replaced by what seemed to be utter astonishment.