Emmagene had the impression he was amused by her, which only made her dislike him more. “We came upon each other accidentally, having both gone for an early-morning walk. But yes, my lord, we did meet Peony. I fear she liked me slightly more than Lord Huntly.”
Southwell bestowed a brilliant smile meant to disarm any woman within an inch of him. She suspected it worked more often than not. “Poor Hunt. He must have frightened Peony. She usually doesn’t react so strongly. The smell is how she protects herself. Skunks are fairly common in America, which is where I found her.”
Emmagene took another swallow of brandy. If Southwell was surprised by her choice of spirits, he didn’t show it. “And how did you make the acquaintance of Peony, my lord, if I may ask?”
“I was camping at the edge of a vast forest with my traveling companions. She must have crawled into my tent as I slept. I awoke to find her curled up beneath my chin, barely bigger than my hand. She was quite helpless.” He shrugged. “Without the rest of her family, she would be left to survive alone, possibly to be eaten by a larger animal. Our guide warned me what Peony could do, but she’s never once lifted her tail in my direction. Only two of my dogs’ and a groom’s. Oh, and there was a dockworker when I returned to England. He wasn’t gentle with her cage.”
“And no one else?” Emmagene found it hard to believe.
“I suppose someone might have come across her in the woods and received the same treatment as Hunt, but if they have, I’m unaware. The trick, you see, is strawberries.”
“Strawberries?”
“I feed Peony strawberries.” He winked. “She loves them.”
Southwell really was spectacular. No wonder Honora was mad about him. “Will Lord Huntly be able to get the smell from his…person?”
“Eventually. The vinegar helps. Somewhat. He should be less odorous tomorrow, but it will take at minimum a day or two.” Southwell regarded her closely. “At least you are free of his company tonight.”
“No, instead I had to endure Montieth,” Emmagene snapped back without thinking. “Of the two, Montieth is more tolerable but barely.”
“Agreed.” Southwell gave a soft laugh. “Hunt is often far too blunt for his own good and offers opinions best left to himself. But I suppose he comes by some of his bad behavior honestly.” Southwell lifted his cane to her before lowering it to the ground again. “We are all the sum of our experiences, Miss Stitch. Hunt is no different.”
Emmagene recalled the story Huntly had told her about being made to spell his food. Part of her wanted to ask Southwell about Huntly’s family, but she thought better of it. Her question would imply interest in the boorish earl.
“And did your experiences make you a better man, my lord?” Honora had related the tale of Southwell’s attack by a black caiman in South America, responsible for the destruction of his left leg and his need for a cane. She claimed it had changed Southwell.
“God, I hope so.” He gave her a pointed look. “I’m aware of your opinion of me, Miss Stitch.
“Richly deserved,” Emmagene shot back a bit too loudly.
Several pairs of eyes turned in their direction, including Honora’s. A concerned look crossed her pretty face. Not for Emmagene but for Southwell.
“You’re hard, Emmagene,”her mother’s voice whispered.
“Again, I must agree with you.” Southwell nodded politely, not the least concerned with Emmagene’s opinion of him. “Enjoy your evening.” He limped his way over to her cousin, the cane echoing against the marble floor. When he reached Honora, their fingers immediately laced together before being hidden in the folds of her cousin’s skirts.
Emmagene finished the brandy in one swallow. The conversation with Southwell had left her with an unwelcome sensation in her stomach, as if she’d eaten something spoiled. His observations about Huntly could just have easily been about her.
She glanced at her cousin again. Honora fairly glowed with happiness, her face shining more brightly than the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Did Honora have to make excuses for Emmagene’s behavior?
The troubling thought stayed with Emmagene as she left the ballroom, having lost what little taste she had for pleasant conversation.
Chapter Seven
An unpleasant odorhung in the early-evening air, billowing around Henry like a cloud.
He grimaced. The scent of vinegar was only slightly less repellent than that of Peony, which still hadn’t dissipated completely but was much reduced.
Henry had spent the remainder of yesterday and most of today exactly as Dunst had predicted, sitting neck deep in a succession of baths attended by a footman who appeared at regular intervals to change out the water. Bowls of vinegar sat around his room, which Dunst had told him would help dispel the skunk odor. So much vinegar. Henry was certain he’d never again be able to taste anything else again.
Especially Miss Emmagene Stitch.
While lying in his bed after the last of his vinegar-soaked baths, Henry, cock in hand, had thought of all the ways in which he wanted to debauch Miss Stitch. There were literally dozens. Twice he’d brought himself to release imagining her hair trickling over his stomach and thighs. Her scowling lips on his cock as she sucked him into her mouth.
Christ.
Henry pushed his lascivious thoughts aside, focusing instead on trudging up the slight incline of the small hill at the end of South’s lawn. He’d been put at the very end of the line of guests Lady Trent had assembled, without even a servant to watch his back. One well-dressed twit in a powder-blue gown, whose name Henry forgot moments after being introduced, had claimed her eyes were watering at the aroma surrounding the Earl of Huntly.
