And it was hardly a mystery as to why.
Ruin had been creeping toward the Templetons since their father’s death—slow and stealthy, but as inexorable as the tide wasting away the sand at the water’s edge. They didn’t speak of it, but they’d all known it was coming, even after Phee had worried herself into exhaustion trying to keep them together at Hambleden Manor. But then Helena had accepted a governess position, and there’d been no hiding from the truth any longer.
A lady with Juliet’s face and charm could do very well for herself in London—with a certain kind of gentleman, that is. She was as lovely as their mother had been—the only Templeton sister who could truthfully be called a beauty—and as charming and vivacious, but without Alice Templeton’s hard, brittle edges, her ruinous selfishness.
There wasn’t a single doubt in Emmeline’s mind Juliet would sacrifice her own happiness to save the rest of them, and save Hambleden Manor.
Dear, lovely thing.
But Lord Boggs! It was out of the question. Emmeline would never allow it, but she’d have to tread carefully. Juliet was as stubborn as the rest of them, particularly once she set her mind to a thing.
But this was no longer just about a wager. It was about Juliet’s happiness.
“Well, my dears, it’s been rather an exciting morning, has it not? For my part, I think we should all be thanking the Lady in Lavender for rescuing us from a dreadfully dull season.”
Emmeline pressed her lips together to hold back a snort.
The Lady in Lavender, indeed.
She would not be revealing herself to Lord Melrose, or to anyone else. The Lady in Lavender could be made to disappear as quickly as she’d appeared, and once she was gone, the ton would forget about her, and so would he.
Blast Lord Cudworth, anyway. He hadn’t gotten a single thing right, for pity’s sake. The gown had been amethyst, most decidedly amethyst, and it hadn’t been a gown at all, but a day dress. Now all of London was in an uproar over the word of a man who couldn’t tell the difference between the two.
“It’s not every morning one finds two such handsome, robust gentlemen in one’s drawing room, is it?” Lady Fosberry rubbed her hands together with glee.
Robust. A prickling heat washed over Emmeline. Yes, Lord Melrose was that, but also…surprisingly gentle, even tender. The soft press of his lips, the teasing stroke of his fingers, his slow, deep drawl in her ear.
I want to taste you…
What had he meant by that? Emmeline had spent half the night imagining the dozens of tantalizing possibilities, but he hadn’t said only that, had he?
No, he’d said, I want to taste you, Susanna.
Susanna, or, as Emmeline had learned from one of Lady Fosberry’s maids this morning, Lady Susanna Exeter. Lord Melrose must be in love with her. He’d certainly kissed her as if he was.
Except he hadn’t been kissing Lady Exeter at all. He’d been kissing Emmeline, touching Emmeline. Surely, a man in love should have known he wasn’t holding his beloved in his arms? Then again, she’d let him kiss her, and she’d even kissed him back, so perhaps the kissing had less to do with love than she’d always supposed.
Still, their liaison in the library couldn’t have made much of an impression on Lord Melrose if he couldn’t even identify whom he’d shared it with, and Emmeline wasn’t such a fool as to moon over a gentleman who didn’t know one lady’s lips from another’s. A kiss didn’t count if one of the participants believed themselves to be kissing someone else at the time—
“Emmeline, did you hear me? Goodness, child, you were a thousand miles away.”
No, just as far as the library. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Did you say something?”
“I did, indeed. I need a few bits and bobs from the shops, so we’re off to St. James’s Street, but do go and change your gown first.” Lady Fosberry patted Emmeline’s hand. “You mustn’t wander about London looking like a street urchin, you know. This is London, not Buckinghamshire.”
Chapter
Six
“Yes, this will do nicely.” Lord Cross paused in front of the glass windows fronting Lock’s Hatters, tilting his new hat this way and that until he was satisfied with the angle.
A beaver hat, of all damnable things. Johnathan’s life was in turmoil, and all Cross could think about was having a new beaver hat.
“You should purchase your own hat, Melrose. The Wellington, I think. The lower brim will help hide your face from the gossips.”
Johnathan came to a dead stop in the middle of St. James’s Street. “Amused, are you, Cross? Well, as long as you’re entertained, I have nothing more to wish for!”
Cross gave him a guilty look. “Er, well, I wouldn’t say entertained, exactly—”
