A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 9
When she started to play, though, it was clear that Miss Carberry was every bit as in control of the keys as any of the other women were.
Miss Carberry stopped, and the others applauded.
Miss Carberry slid from her piano seat, curtsied and then gestured for Emma to take her place.
Some of the women yawned.
Emma swallowed hard. She gazed at the pianoforte. It seemed to signify every privilege she’d never had. Bertrand had insisted she learn so many things, but even he had known that playing the piano was a feat she could not achieve. Even had she had weekly piano lessons, she would never have been able to compare to the other women. After all, they’d had years-long training, and Emma never even had a piano to practice on.
Emma quivered. What would her brother say if he saw that she was about to expose them both? No one would believe a daughter of a baron would have had no musical education.
“Come on,” the marquess said. “Take a seat.”
“I-I...” She swung around and gazed at him.
His expression was slightly bored, but it didn’t seem unkind.
“I’m not much of a piano player,” she confessed.
“That’s why there’s a competition,” Lord Metcalfe’s friend said.
“Er–right.” Her heart shook in her chest.
“It’s just that in my country, music isn’t–”
Lady Henrietta laughed. “Aren’t you Austrian?”
Emma nodded.
“Then you’re being modest. Everyone knows Austrians are wonderful at music. Most of the songs we are playing were written by Germanic composers,” Lady Henrietta said.
Emma was silent.
Lady Henrietta was correct.
And now the women had turned to her, broken from their previous trances.
Ach.
Nine pairs of eyes stared at her.
She opened her mouth and then–sang.
She did know some songs.
Not many, unfortunately.
And the ones she did know she did not sing well.
Her voice had never been her strong suit, something she’d never minded before. Her generally pleasing appearance did not extend to a pleasantness of her vocal cords.
The other women tilted their heads. Some of them widened their eyes. All of them appeared shocked.
Her heart beat quickly, and her lungs struggled for air. She might never have considered herself being a singer, but she had certainly never sung worse than today.
Never mind.
She finished the last verse and then stopped.
There was silence.
Stunned silence.
Some of the ladies’ mouths dropped open, as if Emma had made them forget who they were, and that their mouths weren’t supposed to gape.
Perhaps they simply had decided that any effort at behaving in a ladylike fashion was unnecessary, giving Emma’s behavior.
“Was that a lullaby?” Lord Metcalfe asked finally.
“Yes,” Emma said, conscious that someone, most likely herself, had set her cheeks aflame. “It is–er–important in my country.”
Emma’s cheeks continued to burn, but she lowered herself into a curtsy and settled beside Miss Carberry, waiting for what would happen next.
They might think her odd for choosing to sing rather than play the piano, but at least they didn’t know she’d never learned to play.
If she was sent home, at least she wouldn’t have placed too much suspicion on her family.
Hopefully.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“WELL!” JASPER ROSE. “I think it’s time for another ceremony.”
“C-Ceremony?” Hugh sputtered.
“I asked the servants to prepare something.” Jasper gestured to a footman, who disappeared through the door.
Hugh’s stomach felt queasy. He’d forgotten just how prone Jasper was to having ideas. The man wasn’t just content sipping whiskey from a crystal tumbler, like most of the others of their class. He was often running around, as if he sought to recreate their time at Rugby by making all his life a sporting track.
The footman reappeared, wheeling a tray inside. Cocktail glasses filled with vibrantly colored liquid were placed onto the tray.
Mainly cocktail glasses filled with a red liquid.
The liquid in one glass was pale.
“Is that lemonade?” Hugh asked.
“Oh, your eye did go straight to that,” Jasper said. “Rather makes one think you’re a pessimist.”
“I do not want to discuss my tendencies toward negative or positive emotion,” Hugh growled. “Just tell me what you have planned.”
“I thought it would make sense for you to toast the women who have made it to the next level of the competition,” Jasper said with an innocent smile. “So, you’re to give all the women who are staying a drink of ratafia, and the poor one who isn’t–”
“Lemonade?”
Jasper frowned. “Well. She probably could use a drink more than anyone. But that just means she’ll find the lack of a drink an apt punishment.”
“She shouldn’t be punished if she’s not the right wife for me,” Hugh grumbled. “That’s not her fault. It just means we’re not suited.”
“You have no sense for melodrama,” Jasper said wryly. “You showed such promise earlier. I thought about sending a footman out to pluck flowers from the garden–”
“Please say you didn’t.”
“I didn’t,” Jasper said. “I thought you would want to spare them.”
“You will be the death of me,” Hugh grumbled.
“And yet I’m your best friend,” Jasper remarked cheerfully.
“This is not in good taste,” Hugh said.
“You’re a marquess,” Jasper reminded him. “Not a member of the lower gentry. You’re not bound by the same rules. And as you said, the important thing is that at the end of this house party, you will have found a wife.”
Hugh sighed. He had said that, blast it. Trust a best friend to remember all his ramblings. Jasper really was most infuriating, and since they lived in neighboring estates, Hugh doubted Jasper was going anywhere from his life.
The women glanced warily at the drinks. Miss Braunschweig emitted a nervous energy. Perhaps she regretted her impromptu lullaby.
At least she displayed some sign of sense. He’d wondered if she’d been entirely devoid of the quality.
Hugh grabbed the glass of lemonade and handed it to Jasper. “This is for you.”
“I do not drink lemonade,” Jasper muttered.
“I know,” Hugh said sweetly. He glanced at the butler. “Fletcher, could you please serve the ratafia to our guests?”
“Naturally, my lord.” Mr. Fletcher picked up the silver platter and distributed the drinks to the women.
“Ladies, please rest assured that I am not sending anyone else home,” Hugh said.
Jasper shot him an irritated look. “But perhaps tomorrow. We’re going horseback riding in the morning. I hope you’re all good riders. Hugh is superb.”
Some of the women looked warily at one another. All of them avoided his gaze.
“I–er–look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” Hugh swept into a bow and then exited the room. Quickly. There were times when he was grateful his legs were long, and this was certainly one of them.
Perhaps people had been right in warning him that a house party was an imperfect idea. Right now, he couldn’t imagine marrying any of them.
Everything would have been so much better if he hadn’t had to reveal to the women that he was observing their conversation during dinner.
It was in the past, and tomorrow would be another busy day.
They were all formidable. Any man should be happy to marry any of them. Some were tall, some were petite, some buxom, and some less so, but they were all beautiful in their own fashion.
Well.
To be honest, Miss Carberry’s chin did jut out in a determined manner some might find charming, but that
didn’t precisely match Hugh’s ideals of beauty, and her dark brown hair hardly caught his eye in the same manner as the golden strands that laureled Miss Braunschweig’s hair.
Their dresses varied in style. Some of them had worn pastel gowns, as if they might desire to be imbued with the same qualities of beauty as one of the flowers in his garden. Some of the woman had worn more vibrant dresses, while others had swathed themselves in a luminescent white.
Only Miss Braunschweig had dressed oddly for a woman vying to be a marchioness.
He should send her home.
She’d sung a lullaby, blatantly disregarding his instructions. Why on earth would she have done that? It could only be an insult. He’d desired to find a wife who could be entertaining, who could host members of Parliament, and she’d behaved as if they were all children who needed to be soothed to sleep.
And that voice.
He shook his head slightly, even though she was no longer singing, even though no one was discussing her.
That voice had not been pleasant.
Perhaps she was trying to be dismissed. Perhaps she was still angry with him he’d allowed her to think that he was a valet. Perhaps she’d decided he was not enough for her.
His nostrils flared.
If she thought those things, she misjudged him. He had plenty of good qualities. Everyone said so.
MRS. CARBERRY MARCHED toward Emma and removed her ratafia. “Time for bed.” She glanced at her daughter. “You too, Margaret.”
Emma followed Mrs. Carberry through the corridors to their chambers. Some of the other mothers were also ushering their daughters out.
“What was that?” Mrs. Carberry demanded finally.
Emma glanced into the corridor, hoping none of the doors were open.
Mrs. Carberry seemed to understand her worry, for she yanked Emma into her room.
“The night was a disaster,” Mrs. Carberry said. “I’m not certain how my daughter could have made a worse impression.”
“She still succeeded,” Emma said.
“Because the marquess felt sorry for her,” Mrs. Carberry said.
“You don’t know that,” Emma said, but her voice wobbled, and she had a horrible feeling Mrs. Carberry might be correct.
She shook her head. It was nonsense.
The marquess didn’t possess feelings. If he had, he would never have arranged this horrible gathering. He was handsome and rich. He didn’t need to invite eight women to an enclosed building to ensure that he could convince one of them to marry him.
He was doing this for his own amusement, and that, Emma was certain, was horrible.
“You only just got through,” Mrs. Carberry said. “And what would happen to my poor daughter if you left early? And what would happen to that money I gave your brother?”
“It won’t come to that,” Emma said.
Mrs. Carberry raised an eyebrow. “I heard the gossip. I think it will come to that.”
“In that case, I would tell him my brother is traveling, and that I would have to wait to return with you.”
Mrs. Carberry’s shoulders eased slightly. “You don’t know if that will work.”
“Which is why I’m doing my utmost to stay here,” Emma assured her.
“My daughter is wealthier than any of the women in this room. This should be easy for her. Relatively easy.” Mrs. Carberry’s voice quivered, but she raised her chin, as if that might dispel the note of uncertainty. She gazed sharply at Emma. “I don’t believe you know how to play the piano.”
“Nonsense,” Emma said weakly.
Suspicion filled Mrs. Carberry’s eyes. “Just what sort of baron offers to have his sister fix a competition? For a fee?”
Emma’s throat tightened, and she swallowed hard.
“Hmm...” Mrs. Carberry assessed her. “Perhaps he’s not a baron, after all.”
“Of course he is,” Emma said, trying to summon some sense of outrage, but managing only to feel tired. “We are, perhaps, somewhat short of funds. We lost money in the war when we supported–er–the British,” Emma said, her voice wobbling, as she repeated the lie her brother had said before.
Mrs. Carberry firmed her expression. “I don’t desire any further mishaps. You must hope that the rest of this party goes smoothly. Don’t embarrass me further.”
“Of course, Mrs. Carberry,” Emma said quickly, but the words did not seem to appease the Scotswoman, for she continued to frown.
“My eyes are on you,” Mrs. Carberry said. “Don’t forget.”
Emma nodded and slipped into her room.
Her heart beat fiercely.
She’d been lucky tonight. She should have been eliminated.
She needed to make certain she made the most of this chance. The consequences of failing were too high.
A horrible thought struck her as she prepared for bed.
Horseback riding.
Tomorrow they would ride horses. It hadn’t seemed particularly threatening when she’d scanned the itinerary in the marquess’s room, but she now knew the marquess intended to judge them on their skills.
The only problem? Emma had absolutely no idea how to ride a horse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HUGH HADN’T SLEPT WELL. The fact was not unusual. Lately, sleep had become a rare pleasure, even though he’d never appreciated it sufficiently earlier.
Just like my father.
He sighed.
His father had always seemed healthy, and he’d half expected to have him toddle around the house when he was past ninety.
That hadn’t occurred though.
Instead, his mother and he had learned his father had collapsed during a session at the House of Lords and had died shortly after.
They hadn’t even known he was ill.
Hugh was determined when he entered the House of Lords when the new Parliament began, he would be just as dedicated as his father. His father had thought his duties there vital, and Hugh wasn’t going to give them any less attention.
Hugh dressed quickly. Miss Braunschweig hadn’t been entirely incorrect–he was in the habit of dressing himself, eschewing attire with an abundance of buttons.
All Hugh wanted to do now was ride.
He moved from his room. In a few hours, most of the guests would be awake, and he would join them in the breakfast room. Now though, he wanted to cherish his privacy.
He strode down the corridor, tiptoeing past Jasper’s room.
He smiled. The other wing was crowded, but not this one.
Voices drifted from the kitchen. The servants were awake, and soon the maids would be sent to light all the fires, and the butler would begin ironing the paper to ensure no ink might stain Hugh’s attire.
Hugh pushed open the heavy door that led to the garden and inhaled the crisp summer air. Frost had long since stopped dappling the flowers and plants, but the temperature was still cold in the mornings.
He strode past the familiar flowers and then opened the gate that led to the stables.
A sleepy-eyed boy came up to him.
“Hello, Billy,” Hugh said. “Can you prepare Odysseus?”
A look of worry formed over Billy’s face. “I-I thought you’d taken him, Your Lordship.”
Hugh blinked.
“Forgive me, my lord.” Billy’s words tumbled out more quickly than normal. “Sometimes you take him in the morning. I-I didn’t think there was anything wrong when I didn’t see him.”
“You mean to say,” Hugh said, “that Odysseus is not in his stable?”
Billy nodded miserably.
“Damnation,” Hugh said. “Just what this house party needs–to be beset upon by thieves.”
“Should I send for the magistrate?”
“Grab Perseus,” Hugh said. “And better take Jason for yourself. We need to search this area and see if the horse is still on the grounds.”
“Very well, Your Lordship,” Billy said, his eyes gleaming.
“Now hurry,” Hugh ordered.
THE WORLD TILTED, AND Emma clasped hold of her reins. She hadn’t appreciated the difficulty of horseback riding before.
It was something so many people did. In Brighton, everyone was always riding horses, though luckily most of the people were not the gentry with whom she associated. Those people left their horses in Hampshire or Kent and were content to ramble the coast accompanied by a maid, or ride in their family’s carriage when walking might involve being rained upon.
It shouldn’t have been so difficult.
And yet this horse seemed compelled to trot and gallop, and it was all Emma could do to hold on.
The horse quickened its speed.
“No, horsey,” Emma said. “No, no.”
The horse ignored her and ventured into a gallop.
The world sped.
And Emma flew.
Flying was something she’d never desired to do. She’d never looked at birds with envy. It had never occurred to her that one day she might move as quickly.
But right now, it felt like she was moving just as fast.
She clung onto the horse’s mane, even though it occurred to her the horse might not appreciate it. Still, she wasn’t going to test letting go of it to see if it would slow down.
“Stop.” The wind swallowed her words, and the horse didn’t seem to understand what she said, anyway.
She tightened her grip on her satchel. Horseback riding was considerably more complicated than she’d thought.
She only hoped the horse knew what it was doing.
Unless its goal is to throw me off of it.
She shivered. No one knew where she’d gone. She’d been careful to leave early in the morning. Would they find her if she were thrown from the horse and lying injured in this field?
She gazed at the trees in the horizon, hoping the horse did not desire to head there. She didn’t want to imagine what might happen, but she imagined branches at a perfect height to hit against her head, and a ground hardened by gnarly roots.
If only she’d read the book longer. She’d thought the difficult thing would be putting the saddle on the horse. He’d seemed sufficiently impatient with that, though in retrospect the horse had most likely merely been surprised.