How curious. And she’d assumed Southwell had sent the coach, not Lady Trent. Possibly they were retrieving a relation who could not find their own transportation to Longwood for some reason. According to Honora, Southwell, though an only child, had a large extended family with dozens of first, second, and third cousins.
Wonderful.
A bit of warning would have been appropriate. Now Emmagene would be forced to make pleasant conversation with some elderly aunt or lecherous great-uncle of Southwell’s. A simple-minded cousin, perhaps, or a spinster much like herself. Not that there was anything at all wrong with being unwed. When Emmagene had reached the exalted age of twenty-five, after three unsuccessful seasons, Aunt Agnes had promptly declared Emmagene a spinster with no hope of ever marrying. It was the only thing she and Aunt Agnes had ever agreed upon.
Emmagene peered out the window as the coach rolled to a stop before a red brick three-story home. A bit of paint had peeled away from the front door, enough to curl and form a spiral. Twin urns, one cracked, sat on either side of the entrance, two small shrubs struggling for life from their depths. The overall impression was one of careless neglect.
Her traveling companion was bound to be old and musty if they resided here.
Emmagene shut her eyes. It might be best to pretend to be asleep. If she were lucky, she could get away with the act for several hours.
“My lord,” she heard the driver address Southwell’s relative, dashing Emmagene’s hopes of an elderly aunt. Lecherous uncle it was.
“Just the one small trunk,” the man, whose voice was a gritty baritone, curtly informed the driver and footman before the coach door was unceremoniously thrown open.
Emmagene opened her eyes, just a slit.
A very broad, very male torso filled the entire doorway of the coach. A purple wine stain screamed at her from his waistcoat. The scent of stale cigars filled her nostrils, along with the nauseating aroma of cheap perfume.
Good lord. He smells like a brothel. Or at least how Emmagene imagined a brothel would smell. She’d never actually visited one, of course.
A massive booted foot came into view as Southwell’s relative pushed his oversize shoulders into the coach, clutching the sides of the vehicle with his hands. Which were ungloved and so large Emmagene didn’t wonder that he couldn’t find gloves to fit him.
A tangled mass of hair, the same color as tarnished brass, followed the shoulders as he took the seat across from her, rocking the coach with his substantial weight.
No. Anyone but him.
This was bound to be unpleasant; in fact, Emmagene considered dashing from the coach and just hiring a hack to take her to Southwell’s estate rather than endurethisgentleman’s company. Rude. Ill mannered. Completely self-absorbed. Indiscreet in his affairs, which were purported to be numerous. Apparently, his boorish behavior didn’t put women off. But it could have just as easily been his wealth that attracted them.
She’d completely forgotten he and Southwell were related. Or perhaps Emmagene had only chosen to block it from her mind.
The Earl of Huntly ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging several curls, unconcerned that in addition to not wearing gloves, as a proper gentleman should, he also wasn’t wearing a hat. The only thing remotely pleasing about Huntly was his eyes. Like the sapphires in her mother’s favorite pair of earrings and framed by thick inky-black lashes.
“Switch seats with me,” he said.
Emmagene had once had the misfortune of being introduced to Huntly. Briefly. He hadn’t taken her hand at the time but had instead grunted in her general direction by way of greeting before dismissing her as being of little importance. “I beg your pardon?”
“I become a bit green if I take this seat. Even more so after the night I’ve had. You sit here. I’ll sit there,” he continued. “It’s fairly simple. What don’t you understand? Are you addled?” He had the audacity to snap his oversize fingers at her.
“Oh, I understand you completely, my lord,” she assured him. “I just have no desire to change my seat. I’m comfortable where I am.”
It was clear he didn’t remember having been introduced, even more apparent he hadn’t the inclination to be the least polite. Not surprising given what little she knew of him. Well, Huntly could sit atop the coach with the driver and groom, for all she cared. Though, they probably didn’t want his company either. Outside of their brief introduction, the only other time she’d seen Huntly had been at the ball hosted by Lady Trent. The same event where she’d assumed Honora would refuse Southwell’s attentions and thus spare Emmagene from attending a wedding and house party. At that event, Huntly had stepped on a young lady’s dress, carelessly destroying the hem. She’d later seen him stomping around the buffet set up for the guests. He dropped a canapé into the punch bowl.
Huntly reminded her of a shaggy, poorly behaved dog that tracked dirt all over the furniture and slobbered before dropping a duck at his master’s feet.
“I am the Earl of Huntly. South’s cousin.” He waved a giant paw about. “I’ve been polite. Now you do the same. Trade seats with me.”
Rules dictated the gentleman face backward when riding in a coach. Surely Huntly knew that. Even so, had Huntly made the request of her with even an ounce of civility, Emmagene would have been happy to accommodate him. Alas, he had not.
“I don’t think so.”
Huntly, unbelievably, was still considered to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors, largely because he was relatively attractive and hugely wealthy. She supposed if a woman adored a man with a bearlike physique and blatant disregard for anyone’s feelings but his own, Huntly might holdsomeappeal. A tiny bit.
Emmagene wasn’t one of those young ladies. Nor did she tolerate boorishness, no matter if the gentleman in question was an earl or a day laborer. She picked up her book and proceeded to ignore him as the coach began to once more roll forward.
“I become quite ill sitting backward,” he stated again, this time nearly shouting.
“One of your many faults, no doubt,” she said without looking up. “And I’m not the least hard of hearing. However, your aversion to sitting in that seat isn’t any of my concern. Close your eyes. I’m sure you’ll manage.” Her dislike of Huntly, weddings, house parties, and indeed her own mother was reaching a fever pitch.
