He was right, of course, though Emily was reluctant to admit it. She would do as he suggested, however—step back and allow her sister the space she needed, to make the most important decision of her life on her own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Francis had assured Emily that once Charlotte discovered that he and Emily had formed an attachment, she would undoubtedly approach them all by herself. At least, that was what he hoped, for it was less likely to raise Charlotte’s suspicions than if Emily tried to befriend her on her own. With this in mind, it was with some degree of trepidation that they set out for the Marquess of Ailesbury’s mansion on Wigmore Street the following evening.
Even though the general outline of their plan was Emily’s, she had become increasingly worried that a woman such as Charlotte would be able to see right through her. She was not accustomed to lying, so befriending someone whose life centered on duping those that she wished to benefit from was suddenly the most terrifying thing that Emily could possibly imagine.
A dizzying shimmer of light, bouncing off of jewel-bedecked women and crystal chandeliers, twinkled like fairy dust when they made their appearance at precisely nine o’clock. It was a sight upon which Emily’s eyes luxuriated as they sucked in the opulence of Lord and Lady Ailesbury’s ballroom and of their guests. Music rose to the sound of Haydn’s Surprise, softly filling the air from the far side of the room, only slightly muted by the hum of voices wrapped in conversation.
The floor was polished marble—cream outlined by three borders in black, beige, and brown. The walls and ceiling were ivory white, richly embellished with moldings whose varying patterns had been highlighted in gold. A set of twelve doors led to other rooms, as well as to a terrace overlooking the garden, and above these doors was a balcony that framed the entire ballroom. Up there, sofas and chairs had been set alongside small tables, so that those who’d grown tired of dancing—or simply wished to sit down and rest their legs—could do so without secluding themselves from the rest of the party.
Emily was glad she’d opted for her white dress with embroidered rosebuds lining the neckline and hem in splashes of scarlet. A matching ribbon ran beneath her bosom, tying in a neat bow at the back, the ends of it trailing elegantly behind her as she walked.
Francis thought she looked particularly stunning that evening, and he longed for nothing more than to take her home again so he could have her for himself. Shaking the urge, he tried instead to focus on the task that lay ahead.
They didn’t know for certain that Charlotte would be present that evening, but he hoped that she would. Following Lady Riley’s death, Charlotte had accompanied his father to all such events, taking on the role of his wife rather than that of his mistress. Time had caused many people to forget that she didn’t really belong. Or perhaps they hadn’t forgotten, he reflected, but were either too polite or too affected by habit to do anything about it. It was probably the latter, he decided. The ton generally didn’t mind shunning somebody that they didn’t feel belonged in their circle.
Then again, he was in all likelihood the only person amongst them who’d ever seen Charlotte’s true character. Whenever she went out in public, she immediately donned the appearance of endless kindness and concern for those around her. Never in a million years would anyone have cause to believe that this wasn’t her true nature. Her smile appeared as genuine as that of an angel sent from heaven, and her words so sincere that Francis had always thought she’d make a formidable opponent at cards—nobody would ever call her bluff.
His eyes now scanned the room for her unwillingly.
“I’m glad you were able to come, Dunhurst,” a bold voice spoke, drawing Francis’s attention away from the crowd. It belonged to his host, Lord Ailesbury, who was strategically positioned just inside the main entrance to the ballroom. He stood with his wife upon his arm, greeting guests as they swept past.
Both were in their mid-forties. The marquess was a tall, slim man with reddish hair. His face was softly rounded like that of a young boy, but the creases in his forehead betrayed his age. His wife was a voluptuous lady with heavy br**sts and wide hips—a stark contrast to her husband. Her eyes and smile were warm and inviting, making her the sort of person that people gravitated toward.
“Ailesbury!” Francis shook his host’s outstretched hand. He then directed an elegant bow toward the marchioness. “My lady. I trust that you remember Mr. Rosedale. And may I present some dear friends of mine, the Rutherford sisters: Beatrice, Emily, and Claire.”
“It’s an honor, my lord.” Beatrice, being the oldest, spoke for all of them, then made a slight curtsey. Her sisters followed suit.
“Surely not Anna and James’s children?” the marchioness inquired in amazement.
“Indeed we are, my lady,” Beatrice told her.
“Well, then, I daresay it’s about time you’ve come to London. It simply won’t do for three lovely young ladies such as yourselves to remain hidden away in a small place like Hardington—not that it isn’t a charming little town, but one simply doesn’t have the same access to culture and potential husbands as one does in London. I’m quite sure that half the gentry must be fawning over you already!”
None of the three women could help but blush at the marchioness’s remark. “We visited Hardington once, you know,” she continued. “Your parents used to throw the most extravagant parties—people would gladly come from miles away to attend. Oh, but we were so much younger then and far more reckless.” She put her hand gently on her husband’s arm to draw his attention. “Dear, do you remember how Lord Tenant had to walk home in his unmentionables? He’d gambled away everything else.”
“I do believe Lord Barnaby took pity on the fool and gave him a ride, but yes, I do recall it being quite a colorful event.”
“Ah . . . to be young again,” Lady Ailesbury sighed as she reminisced about her youth. She suddenly shook her head to rid it of the cobwebs, returning her mind to the present. “What a pleasant surprise, indeed. Oh and you must call me Margaret—I absolutely insist.”
They spoke for a few more minutes until another set of guests arrived, and Francis and Jonathan led the sisters toward a table filled with refreshments.
“Is that not Lady Barkley over there?” Emily whispered.
Francis cast a quick glance in the direction Emily was looking. “Well spotted, my dear. You’ll also recognize Lady Cunningham—you’ll recall that you attended her garden party a couple of weeks ago. The other lady in their presence is Lady Ingham, the Countess of Arundel.” He handed Emily a glass of champagne. “All three are very influential women, and they’re almost always seen together. They’ve been friends since they were young girls, you know—I think we ought to go and say hello.”
Leaving Beatrice and Claire with Jonathan, they made their way toward the small cluster of women. “Lady Barkley!” Francis called out as they approached, causing the older woman to turn around immediately in search of the voice.
“Lord Dunhurst and Miss Rutherford. What a delight! I was hoping that I might run into you tonight.”
Francis greeted the other two women before ensuring that they were all familiar with Emily.
“You’ve made quite a catch for yourself, Dunhurst,” Lady Cunningham told him without any attempt at discretion. “Miss Rutherford’s a beautiful young woman with a cheerful disposition. I quite enjoyed making her acquaintance.” She cast Emily a warm smile. “And I do hope that we’ll be seeing more of her in the near future.”
“I’m sure you shall,” Lady Barkley chimed in. “Young Emily here has become quite the talk of the town. It seems that she has singlehandedly tamed our young lord—apparently he’s been nothing but smiles for the past fortnight, and we all know that Lord Dunhurst never smiles.” She cast a sidelong glance at Francis, who was suddenly favoring her with his severest frown. “Oh, there’s no need to look at me like that. You know it’s true.”
“Well, I for one am quite pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Rutherford,” Lady Ingham intoned. “Perhaps you can work your magic on my husband as well?”
Emily blushed at the compliment, but Lady Barkley didn’t miss a beat. “Give it up, Laura. We both know that your husband is a lost cause.”
“We used to think the same of Dunhurst,” Lady Ingham pointed out.
“Yes, but he at least has the advantage of youth. Your husband, on the other hand . . . well, you know how the saying goes . . . something about old dogs and new tricks.”
“I’m sure your meaning is completely lost on me,” Lady Ingham remarked, pretending to be greatly offended, though her smirk betrayed that she was very capable of enjoying jokes that were made at her husband’s expense.
“You’re quite right, though,” Francis told them. “My recent good humor is entirely due to Emily—especially since she has recently allowed me to court her.” He smiled broadly, completely unable to contain his enthusiasm. He would have loved for nothing better than to have announced that she was now his wife, but for now, this would have to do.
Lady Barkley clapped her hands together in a gesture of sheer delight. “I knew it,” she squeaked. “Didn’t I say that the two of you looked rather enamored with one another? I believe I told you to let me know if there was any development.”
“And I just have, have I not?” Francis asked slyly.
“So you have,” Lady Barkley admitted. “Well, congratulations—I hope it ends with a proposal.”
Emily was sure that “just married” must be written upon her forehead in bold letters for all to see. Heat had risen to her face so forcefully by now that she feared she must look like a beetroot. Even a blind person would know, based on the waves of heat radiating off of her, that something was underfoot. How in God’s name was she ever going to hold up against Charlotte, who was sure to be more astute than these women? On the other hand, they didn’t seem to have noticed anything, so perhaps her worries were unfounded.
“Francis, I must add you to my dance card,” a smooth voice said from behind them. It was Veronica, who had approached them together with Lord Farringale. She was wearing a bright orange silk dress with a black velvet ribbon highlighting the empire cut of it. Black feathers had been stuck into her hair at the back, adding that dash of flamboyance that she was so well known for. In truth, the whole ensemble would have looked ghastly on anyone else, but in some peculiar way, it really suited her.
“It was my intention to dance only with Emily,” Francis told Veronica, as he stooped to kiss her lightly on her outstretched hand.
“Come, Francis, even you know that’s not done unless she is your wife—is that not so, Lady Cunningham?” Emily’s knees went weak and she clasped hold of Francis’s arm. How the devil was he managing to maintain such a calm façade? It was doing nothing but unnerving her.