Chapter Twenty-Seven
James could scarcely believe the day had finally arrived.
Emma was here in the flesh, her knees bumping against his as the carriage lurched into movement. Were it not for the occasional brushing of their bodies, he might not have believed she was real.
This was Emma d’Ibert as he’d never seen her before—calm, poised, and elegant. Every inch the lady.
Would Society welcome her, or would she be shunned as an upstart? How much weight did his mother’s patronage carry? If he were seen too much in Emma’s company, would his status help to elevate hers, or would her family’s comparative poverty undermine his?
Mama had needed a great deal of convincing that this was the best way to make amends to Emma and her family for him being a burden to them. Admittedly, it hadn’t been for long, but the d’Iberts must have been horrified at the prospect of having him die on their hands—and he’d genuinely felt so ill, death had seemed a distinct possibility.
Maybe he would have succumbed, if not for Emma’s speedy diagnosis and treatment. She’d done more for him than she’d ever know, and the gratitude he felt toward her had rapidly turned to a disturbing affection that promised to burgeon into something more.
If only she would give him just a drachm of encouragement!
His self-satisfied smile ebbed away. On the other hand, he’d thought Belinda was encouraging him—and how wrong he’d been there!
Had James’s older brother not died after Waterloo, making him heir to the earldom, he would have felt less obliged to marry promptly. If he’d taken more time to get to know Miss Carslake, he might have realized how impressionable she was and made sure to secure her affections long before Cornwallis arrived back on these shores.
Why did women seem so simple, yet turn out to be so devilishly complicated?
He glanced across at Jemima and was rewarded with her smile. Such a sweet, open-hearted girl. Quite the opposite of Emma. Jemima never surprised, insulted, or wounded him. She was as good a friend as a man could hope to have.
It would be a cold day in Hell before Miss d’Ibert accepted him as a friend.
At least she liked the carriage. He’d caught her gazing around in admiration at the leather and velvet upholstery, the painted and varnished wood, and the gilded trimmings. If only he could make her like Bath, as well, perhaps she would feel more kindly toward him.
“Shall I be your guide, Miss d’Ibert?” he offered, leaning forward to look out the window. “My cousin already knows her way about, don’t you Jem?”
“Mmm. Miss d’Ibert, how long has your brother been studying medicine?” Jemima asked.
James didn’t want to talk about George. “Not now, Jem,” he said. “Not when I want to impress Miss d’Ibert with my vast knowledge of Bath. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to discuss her brother in the coming days.”
His cousin smiled back, unabashed, and exclaimed, “Oh yes, do let James educate you, Miss d’Ibert. He knows Bath so well!”
Looking at Emma’s profile as she gazed out at all the bustling elegance of the city, he wondered if she’d ever been to London or Brighton, or if her sphere extended only to Gloucester and its surrounds… How little he knew of her and her history. How much he wanted to know!
Aware of having an audience, however, he resisted the urge to pry, and instead contented himself with describing the sights they passed.
“You may think,” he said, “that you are traveling down a narrow street with low buildings on either side. Would it surprise you to learn you are in fact on a bridge spanning the River Avon?”
“Really?”
Emma sat forward to look farther out the window, bringing their heads close together. His pulse sped up.
“Indeed. And we are now passing the General Hospital and the Bluecoat School. When we get to the end of Barton Street, we’ll be at Queen Square, where you’ll see the obelisk set up there by Beau Nash, the architect of much of Bath’s recent prosperity.”
Did he sound a bore? Yes, he did—a complete bore. He should make a joke, tease her, compliment her, but his brain seemed to have frozen.
“We are now turning into the Bristol Turnpike and heading toward the Royal Crescent,” he said and winced. “Forgive me. You’ll think I’ve just swallowed a gazetteer of Bath and can talk about nothing else.”
His laugh sounded unconvincing, and he sighed inwardly. Thank heaven she wasn’t looking at him, or she’d see what an idiot he felt.
“Is it not a delightful prospect?” he rattled on, wishing he’d never embarked on this tour. “Those are the Crescent Fields spread out before you, and up above them the Royal Crescent, created by John Wood in 1774. It all looks very uniform and elegant at the front, does it not? But once the facade was created, all the rest of the building fell into the hands of different builders, so the Crescent shows virtually no uniformity at the back.”
Emma nodded, but he’d no idea if she was listening to him. He should think of something to say that would make her look at him, so he’d at least have an idea of whether or not he was pleasing her.
Tapping on the roof of the carriage with his cane, he directed the coachman to take them along Brock Street and around the Circus, then past the Upper Assembly Rooms. “That is where all the balls, routs, and concerts are held,” he said. “I cannot wait for the opportunity to beg you for a dance.”
That made her look at him. With what he could only interpret as an expression of deep distrust.
It seemed flattery wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Fortunately, they were now on Broad Street and headed back over Pulteney Bridge toward Great Pulteney Street and his parents’ imposing townhouse.
His ordeal was almost over. It seemed Miss d’Ibert was even more of a stranger to him than ever, and his tour had done nothing to improve her opinion of him.
He sighed inwardly. A few weeks of his mama’s tutelage would no doubt soften her up a bit.
If it didn’t break her entirely.