“Suit yourself. I’ll ride over to Rose Cottage with you and introduce you, but after that, you’re on your own. You won’t mind if I don’t hang around, will you?”
“Of course not,” Simon murmured as a groom led the horses forward. “This is my odd notion and I am quite prepared to live with the consequences.”
Simon vaulted lightly into Lap Seng’s saddle and cantered down the drive alongside his host. The anticipation he was feeling was growing stronger, gnawing at his insides. He fought to control it. He prided himself on his ironclad self-control.
Simon had little doubt of his welcome from the Misses Inglebright and the group of poetry-reading spinsters. He might not be handsome in the style made popular by Lords Byron, Ashbrook, and others, but he was, after all, an earl.
That simple fact, Simon was well aware, combined with his enormous wealth and power, was fully capable of erasing a multitude of defects in a man’s physical appearance as well as obliterating a wide variety of assorted sins, lapses in judgment, and various character failings.
The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society had no doubt been thrilled to learn the Earl of Blade wished to attend their humble salon.
Rose Cottage proved to be humble indeed. It was a tiny little house, situated off a short lane not far from the village, surrounded by a tiny little rose garden.
Two small, gray-haired women of indeterminate years stood at the gate greeting three other women who had just arrived on foot. They were all bundled up against the cold in worn, aging cloaks and pelisses that were uniformly drab in color. Their old-fashioned bonnets were tied tightly under their chins.
Simon surveyed the ladies standing at the gate as he rode up with Lord Gillingham. He got the immediate impression he was about to confront a flock of nervous gray pigeons. He swore softly to himself, wondering which of these dull birds was Emily Faringdon. He experienced an odd sense of dismay and realized he was also somewhat surprised.
Somehow, from her letters, he had not pictured her as one of these severe, middle-aged females. He had been expecting a young woman who bristled with brash energy and overindulged romanticism.
Five pairs of wary eyes peeped out from under the unfashionable bonnets. Not a one of those gazes appeared to belong to anyone under forty. Simon frowned. He had been positive Miss Faringdon would be far younger. And prettier. The Faringdons were known for their looks as well as their feckless ways.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Gillingham removed his hat with an air of gallantry and smiled jovially. “I have brought along your guest for the afternoon. Allow me to introduce the Earl of Blade. Just recently returned from the East Indies, y’know. Wants to see what’s up in lit’ry circles back here in England.”
Simon was in the process of removing his curly-brimmed beaver hat, steeling himself for the task ahead, when it suddenly struck him that there was no sign of welcome in any of the five pairs of eyes that confronted him.
His own eyes narrowed as Gillingham ran through the introductions. There was no doubt about it. The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society were not thrilled to see him. In fact, he could have sworn he saw annoyance and suspicion on their faces. One would almost think the good ladies of the society would prefer he not be there at all.
Gillingham quickly finished the formalities. “The Misses Inglebright, Miss Bracegirdle, Miss Hornsby, and Miss Ostly.”
The women all responded politely, if unenthusiastically, to the introductions. There was no Miss Faringdon, Simon realized. He could not deny he was relieved but it also complicated the matter. He hoped she was merely late in arriving.
“Kind of you to join us today, my lord,” Miss Bracegirdle, a tall, bony woman with a long face said quite coldly.
“Yes, indeed,” the older of the two Inglebright sisters declared primly. She sounded as if she would much rather he had gone hunting instead. “How nice of you to take an interest in our little country society. I fear you will find us quite uninteresting, however. Not at all like the brilliant salons in London.”
“No, no, not at all like London gatherings,” Miss Ostly, plump and dowdy, chimed in quickly. “We’re quite behind the times here, my lord.”
“I have encountered no particularly brilliant literary salons in London,” Simon said smoothly, curious at the reception he was receiving. Something was not as it should be here. “Merely a few groups of chattering ladies and dandies who prefer to discuss the latest scandals rather than the latest works of literature.”
The five women glanced uneasily at each other. The younger Miss Inglebright cleared her throat. “As it happens, we occasionally slip into such silly talk ourselves, my lord. You know how it is in the country. We look to city folk for the best gossip.”
“Then perhaps I will be able to provide you with some of the latest on dits,” Simon retorted, half amused. They were not going to get rid of him that easily. He would leave when he chose.
The women glanced at each other, appearing more uncertain and annoyed than ever. At that moment the sound of a horse’s hooves clattering down the lane caught everyone’s attention.
“Oh, here comes Miss Faringdon now,” Miss Hornsby said, showing signs of genuine excitement for the first time.
The elusive Miss Faringdon, at last. Simon glanced over his shoulder to see a dappled gray mare cantering toward the small group. Something went taut in his gut.
The first thing he noticed was that the woman on the mare’s back was riding astride rather than sidesaddle. The second thing he realized was that this was certainly no giltheaded Faringdon. Bright red curls were flying about wildly beneath a jaunty straw bonnet.
Something sparkled on the lady’s face. Simon was deeply intrigued. Emily Faringdon was wearing a pair of silver-framed spectacles. The sight of them held him riveted for a few seconds. No other woman of his acquaintance would have been caught dead wearing spectacles in public.
“Miss Emily Faringdon,” Lord Gillingham confided in a low whisper. “Family’s pleasant enough, I suppose, but they’re all gamesters, the lot of’em. Everyone calls ’em the Flighty, Feckless Faringdons, y’know. With the exception of Miss Emily, that is. Nice girl. Too bad about the Unfortunate Incident in her past.”
“Ah, yes. The Incident.” Simon recalled the gossip he had gently pried out of his hostess. It had been extremely useful information. Although he did not yet have all the details, he knew enough about Emily’s past to know he had a powerful tactical advantage in the campaign he was about to launch.
He could not take his eyes off Emily Faringdon. He saw with amazement that there were a handful of freckles sprinkled across her small nose. And the eyes behind the sparkling lenses were quite green. Incredibly green.
Lord Gillingham coughed discreetly behind his hand. “Shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered. “Happened when she was barely nineteen, poor chit. All in the past. No one mentions it, naturally. Trust you won’t, either, sir.”
“Of course not,” Simon murmured.
Lord Gillingham straightened slightly in the saddle and smiled kindly at Emily. “Good afternoon, Miss Emily.”
“Good afternoon, my lord. Lovely day, is it not?” Emily brought her mare to a halt and smiled warmly at Gillingham. “Are you joining us this afternoon?” She started to dismount without assistance.
“Allow me, Miss Faringdon.” Simon was already out of the saddle, tossing the reins to Gillingham. His eyes skimmed quickly, assessingly over Emily as he strode forward. He was still having trouble believing he had run his quarry to earth at last. Every Faringdon he had ever seen had been tall, fair-haired, and inordinately handsome.
Looking at Emily now, Simon could only assume that some mischievous fairy had slipped a changeling into the Faringdon nursery twenty-four years ago. Emily even looked a bit like an elf. For starters, this particular Faringdon was no statuesque goddess. She was much too short, very slender, and had no bosom to speak of. Indeed, everything about her appeared to be slight and del
icate, from her little tip-tilted nose to the gentle curve of her hip, which was nearly indiscernible beneath the heavy fabric of her old-fashioned, faded riding habit.
Sunlight glinted again on the lenses of Emily’s spectacles as she turned her head to look down at Simon. He found himself pinned beneath that inquisitive green gaze. It was a gaze that fairly glittered with a curiously refreshing blend of lively intelligence and good-natured innocence.
Simon decided in that moment that Miss Emily Faringdon was going to prove anything but dull. A bit unfashionable, obviously, but definitely not dull. She was just like her letters, after all, he thought. The lady was an original.
Simon reached up, his hands closing about Emily’s small waist. She felt lithe and supple under his fingers. Strong for her size, too. And full of feminine vitality.
Damnation. He was growing aroused just touching her. Simon frowned and instantly regained control of himself.
Gillingham started hasty introductions but Emily was not listening closely.
“Thank you, sir,” she said a bit breathlessly as she started to slide down off the mare. Her attention was on her bulging reticule, which she had attached to the saddle. “Blade, did he say? Gracious, we are certainly not in the habit of entertaining earls on Thursday afternoon.”
“My given name is Simon. Simon Augustus Traherne,” Simon said deliberately. “I believe you know me as S. A. Traherne, Miss Faringdon.”
Emily Faringdon’s mouth dropped open in shock and her large eyes widened in obvious horror behind the lenses of her spectacles.
“S. A. Traherne? No, you cannot possibly be Mr. Traherne.” She jerked backward out of his grasp as if burned.
“Have a care, Miss Faringdon,” Simon snapped as he saw the mare’s head come up in sudden alarm.
But his warning came too late. Emily’s booted foot accidentally struck the rounded belly of the mare. The poor animal took offense at such ill treatment and danced side-ways with a nervous movement. The reticule banged against the mare’s flanks.
Emily’s spectacles started to slide off her nose. She tried to push them back in place and struggled to control her mount at the same time. But she was already halfway off the horse and when the mare snorted again and made another abrupt, sidling movement, Emily began to slide inevitably downward.
“Good heavens,” shrieked Miss Bracegirdle, “she’s falling off the horse.”
“I say,” Lord Gillingham began in obvious concern.
One of the Misses Inglebright rushed forward to make a wild grab for the mare’s bridle.
It was the last straw as far as the mare was concerned. The animal heaved its front half upward, pawing at the air with her hooves.
“Bloody hell,” Emily muttered as she lost her balance completely and fell straight into Simon’s waiting arms.
Emily wished the floor of Rose Cottage would open up beneath her chair and swallow her whole. She was mortified. She was humiliated. She was in the throes of excruciating emotional anguish. She would have given anything to be able to succumb to a fit of the vapors. Unfortunately, her sensibilities were not quite that delicate.
Above all, she was furious. It was absolutely intolerable that the great love of her life should have snuck up on her and caught her so woefully unprepared for such a momentous occasion.
She took a sip of tea to calm her nerves, listening as the ladies of the local literary society made a desultory effort to discuss the latest articles in a recent edition of the Edinburgh Review. There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm attached to the project.
The cup rattled in the saucer when Emily replaced it. The sound made her realize how strained her nerves were. At this rate it was just a matter of time before she spilled tea all over the carpet.
“I suppose I should not have been surprised by the review of Southey’s latest effort.” Simon’s cool, deep voice cut through a fluttering conversation on John MacDonald’s rather tedious work, A Geographical Memoir of the Persian Empire. “As usual, the editors are entirely off the mark in their comments. They simply do not know how to take Southey. Of course, they do not seem to know how to take Wordsworth or Coleridge, either, do they? One would think they had a vendetta against the Lake poets.”
The weak discussion, which had had a difficult time getting started in the first place, promptly ground to a complete halt. Again.
Simon sipped his tea and glanced around the room expectantly. When no one spoke, he tried valiantly to restart the conversation. “Of course, what can you expect from that lot of Scotsmen who call themselves reviewers? As Byron pointed out a few years ago, the Edinburgh critics are a petty, mean-spirited lot. I’m inclined to agree. What does your little group think?”
“You are referring to Byron’s verses entitled English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, my lord?” Miss Hornsby managed to inquire politely.
“Correct.” Simon’s voice crackled with impatience now.
Miss Hornsby blanched as if she’d been bitten. One or two of the other members of the literary society cleared their throats and looked at each other nervously.
“More tea, my lord?” Lavinia Inglebright demanded bravely as she seized hold of the pot.
“Thank you,” Simon said dryly.
Emily winced at the earl’s obvious annoyance and frustration as the conversation trailed off into nothingness once more. But she could not resist a fleeting grin. Simon’s thoroughly chilling effect on the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society was amusing in some ways.
It was rather like having a dragon in the parlor. One knew one ought to be extremely polite, but one did not know quite what to do with the creature.
Seated in a place of importance near the hearth, S. A. Traherne appeared to take up all the available space in the tiny, frilly, feminine room. In fact, he overwhelmed it with his overpowering, subtly dangerous masculinity.
Emily shivered with a strange excitement as she studied him covertly. The earl was a big man, hard and lean and lean and broad-shouldered. His strong thighs were clearly outlined by his snug-fitting breeches. Emily sensed Lavinia Inglebright casting anxious glances at the dainty chair in which the earl sat. Poor Lavinia was probably afraid the fragile piece of furniture would collapse. Social disaster loomed.
Now, the earl sitting amid the ruins of Lavinia Inglebright’s chair would be an interesting sight to see, Emily told herself. In the next breath she decided she must be getting hysterical. Would this interminable afternoon never end?
She stifled a groan and squinted a little, trying to locate the nearest table, where she could safely set down her rattling cup and saucer. Everything was a colorful blur without her spectacles. She had, of course, whipped them off and stuffed them into her reticule as soon as the earl had set her on her feet. But the damage had been done. He had seen her in them.
After all these months of secret hopes and anticipation, she had at last encountered the great love of her life and she had been wearing her spectacles. It was simply too much to be borne.
Nor was that the end of the disaster. Blade had also seen her riding astride instead of sidesaddle. And he had caught her wearing an unfashionable bonnet and her oldest riding habit. And of course she had not bothered to dust powder over her freckles before leaving St. Clair Hall this afternoon. She never bothered with powder here in the country. Everyone around Little Dippington already knew what she looked like.
Dear lord, what a fiasco.
On the other hand, Simon Augustus Traherne, Earl of Blade, was quite perfect, just as she had known he would be. It was true that she had been somewhat taken aback by the coldness of his strange, golden gaze, but a certain cool glitter was only to be expected from a dragon’s eyes, she told herself.
Nor could she hold the unexpected harshness of his features against him. It certainly was not Blade’s fault that there was no hint of gentleness or softness in that bold nose, high cheekbones, and grimly carved jawline. It was a face of great character, Emily thought. A face that reflected enormous strength o
f will. An exceedingly masculine face. The visage of a paragon among men.
How unfortunate he had turned out to be an earl. The gulf between them was now much wider than it had been when he had been simply S. A. Traherne.
The cup and saucer in her hand clinked precariously as Emily leaned forward.
“Let me take that cup for you, Miss Faringdon.” Simon’s strong, warm fingers brushed hers as he deftly removed the saucer from her grasp.
“Thank you.” Emily bit her lip and sat back. Her mortification knew no bounds now. Obviously she must have been about to set her cup and saucer on someone’s lap, possibly on his lap. Bloody hell. She sent up a desperate prayer for escape from this waking nightmare.
“I suggest you put on your spectacles, Miss Faringdon,” Simon murmured in an undertone as the ladies began to argue halfheartedly about the fairness of the Edinburgh reviews. “No sense going about half blind. We are old friends, you and I. You don’t need to worry about fashion around me.”
Emily sighed. “I suppose you have the right of it, my lord. In any event, you have already seen me in them, haven’t you?” She fumbled in her reticule for her spectacles and put them on. Simon’s grimly hewn face and oddly chilling eyes came into sharp focus. She realized he was studying her very intently and she thought she could read his thoughts. “Not quite what you expected, am I, my lord?”
His mouth quirked in brief amusement. “You are even more interesting in person than you are in your letters, Miss Faringdon. I assure you, I am not in the least disappointed. I only hope you can say the same.”
Emily’s mouth fell open in astonishment. She closed it quickly. “Disappointed?” she stammered. “Oh, no, not in the least, Mr. Traherne, I mean, my lord.” She blushed, reminding herself she was twenty-four years old and not a silly schoolgirl. Furthermore, she had been corresponding with this man for months.
“Good. We progress.” Simon sounded satisfied. He took another swallow of tea and something about the twist of his mouth made it subtly clear he did not approve of the blend.