“I think it’s best if you get some rest now, Emily,” he told her softly as he brushed his lips against her forehead.
“Yes,” she agreed. “We have Lady Cunningham’s garden party to attend to tomorrow.”
“Oh, is that tomorrow—I had forgotten. Well then you’d better hurry off to bed.” Turning, he headed for the door, then paused and looked back at her. “Emily, I want you to know . . . you matter a great deal to me. This wasn’t something that will be forgotten in the morning. I hope you know that.” Then, turning away from her once more, he opened the door and slipped away, leaving her staring after him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Emily opened her parasol, twirling it slightly between her fingers as she scanned the lawn behind Cunningham House. Everybody worth knowing had shown up, and rumor had it that even the prince regent was expected to put in an appearance.
“I don’t even recognize anyone,” Claire announced from behind Emily’s left shoulder. “It’s all just one massive blur.”
It was true, Emily agreed with a slight twist to her lips. Amongst all the parasols, bonnets, ribbons, and lace that blended together in one single hue of white, it was very difficult indeed to distinguish one person from another. She looked across at Beatrice, whose arm was linked with Jonathan’s. What a handsome couple they made.
“Well, here is one lady who I daresay will never conform to the norm,” Francis remarked, tearing Emily’s thoughts away from her sister. He’d placed himself directly between her and his aunt Genevieve, who’d been determined not to miss this afternoon extravaganza for the world. And, having no desire for anyone to see her with her cane, for fear they might think her old—to be fair, she was only approaching her sixtieth year—she had latched on to Francis’s right arm for support.
Turning her head, Emily immediately spotted the lady in question—it was of course Lady Giddington, hurrying toward them in a bright spray of pink, her straw bonnet overflowing with ribbons and roses.
“My, my,” Genevieve remarked. “She certainly is a splash of color upon a blank canvas.” Then, addressing Veronica more directly, she said, “If only everyone else would be as daring as you, Lady Giddington, then London might not be so dull and dreary.”
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again, my lady. It has been far too long,” Veronica beamed before turning her attention on Emily, Beatrice, and Claire. “And look at you—how pretty you are, and each with a different colored ribbon about your waists. My dears, there shan’t be a gentleman here who won’t take notice.”
“Thank you,” Beatrice replied, her cheeks turning rosy. “We did try to follow your advice.”
“I daresay that Jonathan and I wouldn’t mind a compliment, too, if you have one to spare,” Francis muttered with a crooked smile. “It does take a fair amount of skill to tie a decent cravat, you know.”
Emily rolled her eyes while the rest of the ladies chuckled.
“Why, Francis,” Veronica continued with an exaggerated note of apology. “I think it goes without saying that you and Mr. Rosedale are the best dressed men here. You must forgive me—it was very thoughtless of me not to point that out sooner.”
“Shall we remain rooted here for the remainder of the afternoon then?” Genevieve asked impatiently. “Or shall we go and mingle with the rest of the guests?”
“I must admit I’d give my left slipper for a glass of lemonade,” Claire said, looking about for any sign of a refreshment table. “The heat is absolutely stifling.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Jonathan put in, “let us wander down toward the pond over there. The shade from the willow trees will surely offer some measure of relief.”
The plan was quickly agreed upon, and when Francis and Jonathan offered to fetch drinks for everyone, none of the ladies protested.
“Well?” Veronica suddenly asked Beatrice as soon as the men were out of earshot.
“Well what?” came Beatrice’s guarded reply.
“Oh, come now, Beatrice, the whole world can see you’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow . . . and if I’m not mistaken, then . . .”
“I cannot imagine what you might be referring to,” Beatrice said, looking away in the hopes that Veronica might disappear into thin air.
“I think I can,” Emily said with a wide smile directed at her sister. “We’ve all seen the way you look at Mr. Rosedale.”
“You’re one to talk,” Beatrice countered. “For someone who’s recently had her heart broken, you certainly seem rather chirpy of late—one cannot help but wonder if it isn’t because of Francis.”
“Why ever would you say that?” Emily squeaked.
“I can’t say . . .” Beatrice said, her resolve withering.
“If I may,” they heard Veronica say. “I believe it’s because you look at him as though you’d like to devour him—clothes and all.”
“I do not!” Emily gasped, appalled by the fact that her thoughts had been written so plainly upon her face.
“Hush, ladies,” Genevieve admonished. “We will not discuss such matters in public—especially not when the gentlemen in question are presently coming our way.”
But as Emily turned her attention toward Francis and Jonathan, who were doing their best not to spill the tall glasses of lemonade they were carrying, she couldn’t help but feel Lady Genevieve’s sharp eyes boring into her.
“It may interest you to know,” Francis said upon his arrival, his eyes turning to Claire, “that we just ran into Lord Camden. He inquired about you . . . seemed quite eager to discover which flowers are your favorites. I told him I hadn’t the foggiest idea. Perhaps you ought to go and tell him yourself.”
It was Claire’s turn to look as though two giant hearts had just been slapped over her eyes. “Oh, please, can I, Bea? If you come with me it should be all right, don’t you think? Oh, please say yes.” By the time she finished talking she was bouncing up and down like a spring.
“I think it sounds like the perfect opportunity for us to better our acquaintance with his lordship,” Beatrice announced. “I shall be happy to accompany you, Claire.” The words were barely out before Beatrice was being dragged away by her sister.
“And I’ll be right behind you,” Jonathan called out as he marched after them, sending a lopsided grin and wink toward Francis as he left.
“Oh look,” Genevieve suddenly said, craning her neck. “There’s Lady Barkley—haven’t seen her in ages . . . but who on earth is that exquisite creature she’s with?”
“Oh . . .” Veronica remarked, noticing the couple that were just now crossing the lawn with one another. “That, my lady, is Mr. Fairchild’s bride-to-be: Lady Kate.”
Genevieve appeared to study her more closely. “Hmmm . . . upon further inspection I can only say that she’s not as pleasing to the eye as I initially thought.” Then, appearing to have completely forgotten about Kate, she turned her gaze on Emily. “You, my dear, are far prettier.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Francis muttered.
Emily wanted nothing more than to fling herself into their arms in appreciation of their loyalty, but the smile upon her lips and the blush in her cheeks was enough to convey her gratitude.
“Do you know—it looks as though they’ve spotted us. I do believe they’re heading this way,” Veronica suddenly said.
Francis’s eyes grew instantly dark, his lips set in a tight line. He reached out and took Emily by the arm, drawing her closer as if to protect her. As for Emily, the smile she’d just given Genevieve and Francis still graced her lips, allowing her to look absolutely thrilled at the sight of Kate coming toward her. But on the inside, her stomach had begun contorting itself into all sorts of unimaginable shapes. After all, the last time she’d spoken to Kate, she’d said her piece and walked off with her head held high after slamming the proverbial door in her face. Whatever was she to say to her now?
Before she could gather her thoughts, the two women were upon them.
“Good afternoon, Lady Barkley,” Francis greeted the baroness, planting a kiss on her outstretched hand. “You’re looking as young and lovely as always.” He flashed her his most dazzling smile.
“Oh, Lord Dunhurst, really . . .” she snickered in such a girlish fashion that she did indeed appear many years younger.
“Lady Kate.” Francis greeted Kate with a formal nod, his smile fading. “I don’t believe you’ve ever met my aunt, Lady Genevieve.”
Kate made a polite curtsey.
“Though I do believe you’re familiar with Lady Giddington,” he added.
“It is indeed a pleasure to see you again, my lady,” Kate declared.
“Tell me,” Veronica said once they’d all greeted Lady Barkley as well. “How are your wedding preparations coming along? Have you decided on a gown yet?”
Kate cast a nervous look in Emily’s direction. “As a matter of fact, I have,” she admitted with a great degree of reluctance. “Aunt Harriet found a wonderful dressmaker for me. In fact, she’s been incredibly helpful in all aspects of the preparations, though I do consider the gown to be her crowning achievement.”
“Well done,” Veronica cheered. “I’ve always subscribed to the notion that a woman should begin preparing for her wedding by picking the right gown. Once that is done, everything else falls naturally into place.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lady Barkley said with a nod of approval.
“Yes,” Kate added, her voice dropping to a mousy whisper. “It has served as great inspiration for all the wedding invitations, as well as for the cake.”
“Cake, you say?” A spark of interest appeared in Genevieve’s eyes. “And what sort of cake will that be, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all—as long as you promise not to tell anyone—I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” Kate replied.
The older woman’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “You can count on us,” Genevieve assured her. “Isn’t that right?”
Everyone nodded, including Emily and Francis, their curiosity getting the better of them.
Pausing for emphasis, Kate finally told them. “It will be a rich chocolate and cream layer cake with a slight hint of brandy, covered in butter cream frosting and chocolate shavings.”
“That sounds utterly delicious—I believe I shall begin saving my appetite already,” Lady Barkley told her. She then turned an inquisitive eye on Francis. “And what about you, Lord Dunhurst?” she asked. “When do you think your wedding will be taking place?”
All eyes turned to Francis, who looked as if he’d just seen a pig fly. “My what?” he exclaimed, not even attempting to hide the shock in his voice.
“Your wedding—to Miss Emily, of course,” the baroness insisted as she cast a sidelong glance in Emily’s direction, as if Francis needed reminding.