Chapter Twenty-Eight
August 4th
No.12, Great Pulteney Street, Bath
My dear Clara,
I do hope you are well and that your husband and your little one prosper. Do you not see the impressive address above? It will puzzle you greatly how I come to be living in Bath when the last you heard of me was that I was condemned to comfortable obscurity as a governess in Gloucestershire. I am currently sitting at a Chippendale writing desk, which has the most elegantly turned legs and burr-walnut top. It belongs to my new patroness, Josephina, Countess of Rossbury, who has condescended to let me use it for writing my letters, almost as if I were a proper lady again! But I cannot write for too long, because my regime here is nearly as strict as that of governess at Figheldene Hall.
I must practice on the pianoforte two hours a day, brush up my French with a displaced French duc—which lessons are shared with a Miss Jemima Pitt—and embroider a fire screen for Her Ladyship, which her various companions have devoted their labors to over the years but never finished. I must exercise Her Ladyship’s pug dog, Suki, attend dancing and deportment lessons, and visit in company with Her Ladyship every single afternoon, as well as find the time for a nap. And in the midst of all this activity, I must go with Miss Pitt to Pettingal’s the silk mercer, Mantell’s milliners of Manvers Street, and Percival and Cunditt’s drapers, as well as to the dressmakers, to ensure that no single part of us is not attired in the very finest muslin, brocade, lustring, and gossamer gauze.
Dressed like peacocks, we have already been to an assembly at the Upper Rooms and have exhibited ourselves in an open carriage around the bounds of Sydney Gardens Vauxhall. There are still more entertainments to enjoy before the rapidly approaching end of the Season.
Miss Pitt is a delightful young lady who, once she is comfortable with one, reveals a soul full of enthusiasm for life. I have noticed her particular enthusiasm for my brother, George, who has given her some exercises to do for a painful heel. He has thus become an idol of perfection to her undiscerning mind.
Alas, I must go, for tonight we are all to have supper together at Sydney Gardens Vauxhall.
Yours affectionately,
Emma d’Ibert
Emma sealed her letter with the countess’s seal, then franked it for the general post. It was the first time she’d had a moment to herself since arriving in Bath. Who’d have thought her new life would be so exhausting?
Nonetheless, she had the satisfaction of thinking herself a faultless protégé. Her playing was improving, her French—always good—was now polished to perfection, her dancing was both accurate and graceful, and her deportment so improved she felt she must be at least an inch taller.
There’d been little time to visit her parents, although George had fearlessly called upon the Rossburys, using Jemima’s sore foot as an excuse. He’d accompanied them to the baths and the Pump Rooms—where he’d taken the waters with them—and seemed not in the least hurry to return to his studies in Bristol.
Of James, Emma had seen less than she might have expected. He kept his own establishment in Duke Street, she’d discovered, though she’d not yet seen the place. He’d accompanied them to a ball at the Upper Assembly Rooms, where he very properly danced with every unmarried young female in the room. Because she was his mother’s protégé, he’d sought her hand for two dances…the second of which was a waltz.
The experience of that waltz had left her unusually flustered. It had brought her closer to him than she’d been since their first carriage ride together…and revived vivid memories of that fateful night at Tresham when he’d held her in his arms. Even though she’d kept her eyes firmly on the smart diamond pin in his cravat, she couldn’t help but recall the sculpted muscles of his torso shining with sweat and the compelling expression in his eyes when he commanded her to join him in his bed.
Furious at herself for allowing such disturbing memories to resurface, she had struggled to continue with the dance, and it was only James’s expert guidance of her steps that stopped her creating chaos among the other couples. As it was, she spun dizzily around the room, wishing she’d had something more solid to eat before standing up with him. When he returned her to her seat afterward, she’d downed a whole glass of champagne in one go and afterward was unable to indulge in sensible conversation for a full ten minutes.
Now another evening’s entertainment beckoned, at which James would be present, and she must look her absolute best if she wanted to please the countess. She would make sure to observe James minutely, to see if he was at all put out by George’s attentions to Jemima.
Not that she cared one whit what the viscount felt about any other female.
Or did she…?
He’d behaved with absolute propriety each time they met, never once criticizing or belittling her or showing any of that stubborn arrogance with which she’d so often credited him. He was charming, attentive, and entertaining, and looked the paragon of masculine magnificence. Maybe the noisome spa waters of Bath really had been efficacious in restoring him to health—in mind as well as in body. One might almost say he was a changed man, or that he’d reverted to what he was before Belinda Carslake broke his heart, before his own experiences of warfare and the tragic early death of his brother.
Such things left deep scars. Emma was ready to both pity and admire James, even to admit she cared for him. The magnetic pull between them hadn’t lessened—if anything, it had become more powerful than ever. So much so that sometimes, when in his company, she was driven to distraction by the urge to touch him and experience again the scintillating thrill of desire.
Yes, her heart beat faster whenever she laid eyes on him. Yes, his presence could light up the room. But alas, she couldn’t forget what he planned to do to Tresham. Neither could she forgive him for manipulating her parents in such a way that they couldn’t possibly disapprove of his plans for the place.
And there was still the fact that he was exceedingly good-looking, and could not, therefore, be trusted to be faithful.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” she muttered to herself as she went to her room to dress for the evening.
And thus far, James Markham, Viscount Tidworth, had failed to live up to that ideal.