Emmagene’s mouth popped open in mortification.
The footman rushed over, disconcerted and clearly not sure how to deal with someone like Huntly. “Yes, my lord.”
“Pheasant,” Huntly demanded. When the man rushed away, he turned to Emmagene. “Close your mouth, Miss Stitch. You don’t want one of these tiny bugs or something equally distasteful to fly in.” He chucked two more peas at another footman. “I don’t like to be ignored, especially under these circumstances. Lady Trent has more than made her point.”
The footman slapped at his cheek before turning in Huntly’s direction, eyes widening in complete horror that an earl was pelting him with peas.
“Wine.” Huntly lifted his goblet and nudged Emmagene. “Did you want some as well?”
“No, my lord.” Emmagene bit her lip, trying to stifle her amusement because it would only encourage his continued bad behavior. It was funny, having him hurl peas at a group of footmen because they’d had the audacity to ignore him. He really was just awful.
She glanced away from her dinner companion, gaze landing on Honora. Emmagene’s cousin glowed with happiness. Southwell was feeding her a bit of potato, uncaring to anyone who might be watching. Given the earl’s history with Honora, was it any wonder Emmagene had had misgivings about their relationship? But even she had to admit Southwell’s love for Honora was apparent to anyone who looked at them.
“I don’t see the point in marriage, though South is smitten with the Widow Culpepper.” Huntly stabbed in Honora and Southwell’s direction with his fork. “Don’t know why they couldn’t just have an understanding of sorts. She is a widow. It isn’t as if she’s an innocent girl.”
“What an incredibly rude and unprincipled comment.” Emmagene had once considered the exact same thing. “Why,” she’d pleaded with Honora, “must you marry him?” Gentlemen, even those with the best intentions, were bound to eventually lose interest and take a mistress.
Honora had been so bloody angry after Emmagene had voiced her opinion that they hadn’t spoken for a week.
Now, tonight, looking over at Southwell and Honora, Emmagene had to acknowledge that love, at least for them, was real. Just because it hadn’t been for Emmagene didn’t mean she should disparage her cousin for finding such affection. Maybe it was Emmagene who was flawed and unworthy of such an emotion. Wasn’t that why she’d made sure never to be enticed by the promise of love again? Because she didn’t want to know for sure that she was unlovable?
“Obviously”—she turned toward him—“you have little experience in an affectionate relationship between a man and woman.” Huntly’s experiences were probably limited to groping his mistress or any desperate woman who found him attractive. Rumor had it there were plenty of those.
A snort. “Because you are, Miss Stitch?” Huntly’s gaze raked over her. “Forgive me if I don’t assume you to be an authority on the subject.”
Dislike for him resurfaced, pushing away every tiny bit of empathy at his spelling story and amusement at his childish actions to gain the attention of the footmen. Did he really believe everyone was entitled to his opinion? Or cared for it? There was a reason Lord Huntly was himself unmarried. Why most of society viewed him as little better than something to be tolerated because he was an earl.
“More so than ill-mannered second sons. At least I’vechosennot to marry. Affairs are one thing, my lord. Understandings another.” Emmagene leaned closer to him, ignoring the way his very presence brushed against her skin. It was annoyance, she supposed. “But affection? It will take all your wealth and your title to compel a young lady into that, I should think.”
Huntly’s fork and knife hovered over his plate. Possibly he was considering stabbing her with one or both pieces of silverware. “Shrew.”
The remainder of the evening would be better spent with a book in her room than trading barbs with Huntly. “Please excuse me, my lord. I fear I’ve developed a headache.” It was a breach of conduct for her to leave the dinner so early, but Emmagene could feel a pounding in her temples, so it wasn’t a complete lie.
“It’s your hair,” Huntly said blandly, returning his attention to his plate. “Pulled far too tight across your scalp. Bound to constrict your mind somehow.” He barely lifted himself from his seat as she stood.
She resisted the urge to toss her wine at him.
Emmagene turned and strode to Honora, her excuse for leaving dinner early already on her lips. The journey from London, she would say, had tired her more than expected. Maybe Huntly would choke on a wedge of potato or a pheasant bone, saving her and the rest of the house party from having to endure his insufferable company.
It was only when Emmagene paused to speak to Honora and Lady Trent that she felt the sting of a pea hitting the back of her head.
Chapter Four
Henry kicked ata branch blocking the path, gratified when it snapped beneath his foot. He gave it an extra stomp with the heel of his boot. It did not lighten his mood.
Once Miss Stitch had marched off last night in a fit of pique, he’d finished his dinner in blessed peace. There had been no distractions, like the scent of honeysuckle rising from her skin, to keep him from the enjoyment of the wine. Nor the line of her throat, barely visible above the outrageously high neckline of her gown, beckoning him with every turn of her head. Every time she’d moved, Henry had heard the rustle of the silk, more seductive to him than the most generously endowed courtesan. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to mention his family to her. Others had commented on the odd way Henry approached his food, but he hadn’t felt compelled to explain a thing to them.
Henry rarely spoke of Douglas. The perfect son and heir. A model gentleman. A true gentleman. He and Douglas had been nothing alike in appearance. Henry had always felt like an oversize giant next to his brother’s lean, sinewy build. Douglas wore clothes well. Never went without his gloves. He was well mannered and polite to a fault. Henry’s brother had even chosen a perfect, pink-cheeked young lady to be his bride, one with an impeccable bloodline.
Henry, on the other hand, waded through mud and dirt, both as a child and an adult. Laughed loudly. Never felt comfortable in evening clothes. Preferred taverns to the quiet civility of London’s gentlemen’s clubs. Drank too much. Ate too much. Was careless in his dealings with gentlemen and ladies alike. He would break a young lady such as Douglas had chosen if he wed one. Henry preferred bawdy, experienced women of sturdy build whose tastes in the bedroom wouldn’t be quite so delicate.
Henry was still angry at Douglas for falling off that bloody horse and breaking his neck, leaving Henry as the heir and future Earl of Huntly. Henry had been ill prepared for the change in his fortune, nor had he wanted to be an earl. London society had been nearly as stricken as Henry’s parents when Douglas had died, leaving Henry to inherit.
Events such as this stupid house party always brought home to Henry how he would never be the gentleman Douglas should have been. He was too big. Awkward. Coarse, as Miss Stitch guessed correctly. His discomfort of society often led Henry to be rudely dismissive before he could be dismissed himself. Lady Trent, in particular, always made Henry uncomfortable. Her dislike of him was well earned.
“How I wish it had been you that mounted that horse.”
His mother had whispered those very words to Henry as he’d wept over Douglas. He was sure Miss Stitch would have been in agreement with the Countess of Huntly.
