On sunny days, Emmagene accompanied her nephew, Albert, to the park, where she helped him sail toy boats in the pond, followed by a picnic on the grass. Though the paths, especially along the Serpentine, were filled with society taking the air, Emmagene had seen no one from the house party except Montieth. They nodded to each other politely from a distance.
Dutiful, unwed daughter that she was, Emmagene went shopping with her mother. She accompanied Mrs. Stitch when she paid calls on her friends, none of whom Emmagene gave a fig about. To be fair, her mother’s friends didn’t like Emmagene either. Despite her being on her best behavior, they still cast her pitying looks, all the while whispering about Emmagene’s shrewish nature and what a trial she must be for her poor mother.
Huntly’s name had been mentioned once on one of these outings and only in passing. He’d been in attendance at a ball and was regarded by the matchmaking mamas as a “most eligible bachelor.” Lady Kinderton, the source of the gossip and the biscuits they’d nibbled at, which Emmagene had found somewhat stale, had declared she had no idea where Huntly had gotten his boorish reputation. Lady Kinderton assumed it was his appearance, for he was overly large, which gave the impression of gruffness. It couldn’t be anything else, for he had charmed every young lady at the ball.
Emmagene took a sip of her tea, admiring how the light shone through the fine bone china. The only way Huntly would be considered charming, possibly, was if he were foxed.Gruffwas a term best applied to elderly gentlemen, not boorish earls. Lady Kinderton was quite obviously a nitwit. Emmagene had nearly asked if Miss Cradditch was one of those young ladies who found Huntly so fascinating but had bit her tongue.
An image of Huntly the last time she’d seen him loomed before her. Big and naked, growling at her from the bed. She shut her eyes, willing the memory away.
The front door slammed, echoing down the hall. The sound of boots scuffling against the tile of the foyer filtered into the parlor. Who on earth could that be? Her father was in his study. Her mother was out shopping. No one ever called on Emmagene.
“My lord, you cannot barge in without being announced.” The annoyed voice of the Stitch family’s butler sounded outside the parlor door. “I’m not even sure Miss Stitch is receiving today.”
“She’ll seeme.” The rumbling baritone echoed in the hall. “Whether she’s receiving or not. Lord Huntly to see Miss Stitch. Announce me. Now.”
Emmagene looked up from the letter, grasping the paper so hard she nearly tore the page in two. Lady Kinderton was incorrect. Huntly’s manner still had room for improvement.
A polite knock, and the parlor door opened a crack to reveal Jones, the butler, ruffled but determined to maintain his dignity in the face of the visitor.
Emmagene would try to do the same. She’d been thinking of him only moments ago, and now Huntly had appeared. She suddenly realized how woefully ill prepared she was to receive him.
“Miss, there is a Lord Huntly here to see you.”
Hands trembling, Emmagene gently placed the cup back atop the saucer without spilling a drop. She lifted her chin and composed herself, torn between the burst of happiness at seeing him and the wound of their last conversation. Well, if Huntly was here to ask Emmagene to be his mistress or form an understanding until he wed some unsuspecting young lady, he was in for something else entirely. She would have him thrown out. Or rather, Emmagene would insist Jones find someone capable of throwing Huntly out.
“I see,” she said much more calmly than she felt. “You may show him in, Jones.” After carefully folding Honora’s letter, she set it aside and sedately faced the arrogant beast at her door.
Huntly strode in, big and blustering, marvelous in a coat two shades darker than his eyes. The thick muscles of his thighs rippled beneath the leather of his riding breeches as he came forward, the tread of his boots barely muffled by the fine Persian carpet beneath his feet. The burnished gold of his hair was neatly and expertly trimmed, the curls no longer rioting around his ears and forehead. Sunlight glinted off the brush of dark-blonde hair along his jaw. He was still in need of a better shave. Or a more fastidious valet. At least his cravat appeared to be twisted properly.
All in all, a vast improvement.
He was so bloody handsome as he paused halfway into the room, looking down his nose at her. Her heart didn’t softly flutter at the sight but flapped wildly about, barely contained by her rib cage.
“Stop twisting your hands like a weeping woman.” He glared at poor Jones. “No need for you to hover about.” He dismissed the butler with a flip of one large paw.
The butler shot Emmagene a flustered look. He would go find her father the moment he shut the door. This was bound to end badly.
“I’ll be fine,” she said to Jones. “Could you bring a fresh pot of tea?”
“And scones. Maybe some tiny sandwiches. Somethingrobust,” Huntly said over his shoulder, instantly reminding her of the night she’d tumbled down the hill at Longwood, in his arms. He leisurely strolled around the small parlor, pausing to peruse her mother’s knickknacks and a portrait of a Stitch family ancestor.
“Looks sour.” Huntly glanced in her direction. “I can see the resemblance.”
Emmagene’s lips pursed.
Jones had left the door purposefully ajar in case Emmagene should need to call for assistance. Which she very well might. Huntly had started to circle her like a hungry lion.
“I imagined you in a space such as this,” he said, the rough scratch of his voice winding around her legs. “Writing your correspondence. Sipping tea. Devising all sorts of boring things to do with tedious people. Maybe saving an orphan or two.” The deep-blue eyes grew heated. “But in my vision, you wore much less clothing.” He drew out each word. “Barely anything at all.”
“I see.” Emmagene didn’t care for the predatory look gleaming in his eyes. Or the anger.
“I wonder that you do, Miss Stitch. Montieth held a dinner party the other night, or I should say, Lady Trent did,” he said conversationally. “I was invited. I didn’t really want to go, you understand, since I despise lengthy dinners almost as much as a house party. The food was excellent, but the other guests were barely tolerable. You’ll be pleased to know I threw not one pea at anyone. Would have if you were there, of course.” He finally settled across from her on the sofa, stretching one arm along the back. The large hands flexed against the cushions. No gloves, of course, despite the obvious improvements to his appearance.
Emmagene felt herself weaken, just slightly, in his direction. She’d missed this.Him. Stiffening her spine, she asked, “There weren’t any? Peas, I mean.”
“No. Only bits of carrot and potatoes. Nothing worthy of my expert marksmanship. No one wants to be pelted with a sliver of carrot. Doesn’t have the same impact.”
She caught herself wondering if Miss Cradditch had been in attendance but told herself she didn’t wish to know. Why didn’t Huntly get to the bloody point so she could have him escorted out? “I’m sure the ladies present at Lady Trent’s dinner appreciated your tact. Which brings me to the reason for your visit, my lord. I fear you are wasting your time—”
