Chapter 3
If a gentleman treats you as though you are invisible, you are better off with his disinterest.
Mrs. Matcher
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
Heath rather suspected Lady Emilia Aberdeen had no intention of emerging from behind that screen.
After three well-played strikes, he was rather certain of it.
Leaning over the velvet table, his arm drawn back, he briefly lifted his gaze in the direction of that screen and, for a longer moment, contemplated his escape.
The young woman who’d stalked the halls of Everleigh as if they were her own and dueled quite wittily with her mother and father at countless family gatherings, was not one he’d have taken to hide as a grown woman.
And yet, hiding she was.
Just then, rule four—or was it five?—on his mother’s list intruded.
If Emilia does seem upset, it is your gentlemanly responsibility and duty to somehow cheer her up.
Heath tugged at his cravat. She wasn’t necessarily upset. There could be any number of reasons she remained behind that screen. She could be… Or…
Bloody hell. Nay, there really wasn’t any reason she’d be behind there other than ladylike upset. There had been the two angry harridans and the obvious fact that she was even now hiding behind that screen.
Damn it. Not for the first time, Heath lamented not having more of his brother’s effortless ability to charm. “Are you awaiting permission?” Heath completed his next shot. “If so, you needn’t.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then…
“My lord?” she asked tentatively.
Had Lady Emilia ever been tentative? Some of his most vivid recollections of the lady were of her minxlike escapades of chasing after gypsies and legends on her family’s estates, all the while doing so over her mother’s lamentations and pleading. Time had changed her. “Permission,” he repeated, eyeing his next shot. “To emerge.”
“P-permission,” she sputtered, still in her hiding place. “I do not…” As if she too realized the inherent silliness of debating that point from behind the folding screen, the young woman stepped out. With a toss of her honey-blonde curls, she scowled at him. “I do not need permission to emerge.” Nonetheless, it did not escape his notice that she remained rooted alongside that screen.
“I didn’t presume you did. I just couldn’t account, however, for why you’d opted to stay there.”
It was likely the pattern she’d displayed over the years of being anywhere… well, anywhere he wasn’t.
Not that he could entirely blame her. There was the whole awkward matter of her broken betrothal to his best friend.
“Yes, well…” She gave another toss of her curls. “Seeing as how two gossips hunted down my—”
“Hiding spot?”
A pretty blush climbed her high cheekbones. “Whereabouts,” she settled for. “I thought it would be prudent to not simply rush out and engage you in a discussion.”
She’d managed to deliver two insults in that charge—one challenging his prudence and two with that slightly overemphasized word. Even being the recipient, Heath was hard-pressed to not appreciate the effortless retorts.
“Furthermore,” she went on, stalking over with a peculiar brown leather book and a pair of pencils clutched close to her chest. “Opening the door could have proven disastrous.”
Being caught alone with Lady Emilia Aberdeen? Yes, there would have been a scandal there, indeed.
“Had you remained silent,” she went on, “they would have eventually gone on their way, and neither of us would have risked discovery.”
“Ah, yes. But then they would have gone on believing you had been listening in on their conversation.” Heath returned his focus to the billiards table. Bringing his shot forward, he sent his white ball flying for another. They collided with a loud crack. “Which I trust is, in fact, what you were doing?” He straightened and glanced over in her direction once more.
The glow cast by the row of chandeliers overhead bathed her face in light and put her deepening blush on display. “I wasn’t… listening in, per se.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not intentionally.” She shifted her book in her arms. “Rather, I was avoiding—” Her lips immediately formed a tight line as she considered the door.
He arched a brow. “My mother’s festivities?” he ventured, staking out his next shot. “You are not alone on that score.” Solitude had been that elusive gift he’d craved before his mother had stormed this space and given him his marching orders for the remainder of the house party. “I trust you’ll find the halls now safe for you to—” He cut off abruptly, noting that he was in the midst of conducting a one-on-one conversation—with himself.
Brow puzzled, Heath looked up and started.
Lady Emilia was in the midst of setting the burden in her arms on the sideboard, and he blanched. By all intents and purposes, it appeared as if… “My God, you intend to… stay.”
Connell’s betrothed.
Nay, former betrothed, but really, it was all the same. Not only had she invaded his sanctuary, she’d laid a damned claim to it.
Her lips formed a small moue of displeasure. “You needn’t sound so horrified about it.”
He’d sounded horrified because he was horrified.
“You most certainly cannot stay here.” He’d done his good deed where Emilia Aberdeen was concerned that night. Saving her from gossips surely counted for something. It was one thing assisting a young woman seeking to escape a pair of busybodies and unwanted gossip. It was an altogether different matter keeping company with that same woman. Alone. “You’ll”—his mind worked—“miss the fun planned by my mother,” he said.
“Charades?”
“You quite excelled at it as a girl.” A memory flitted in of her crawling on all fours around his mother’s parlor, one arm dangling from her nose as she trumpeted the great elephant’s sound.
“Pass,” she said cheerfully and then marched across the room with determined footsteps.
He followed her every movement. What in blazes was she doing now?
Emilia grabbed one of the lattice-backed chairs and proceeded to carry it over to his sideboard. “You see, no one would dare search for me here. It is, in fact, the last place I would be.”
He stared on, feeling like an actor in the midst of a performance without the benefit of his lines—any of them.
“Now, you? You, on the other hand, they would expect to be here,” she went on, moving the decanters and glasses off to the left side of the mahogany piece.
His mouth opened and closed several times. Not because the chit’s reasoning was accurate—he’d been found by his mother not even thirty minutes ago—but rather, because… “Are you trying to tell me to leave?”
The minx paused in her task to glance back at him with a blindingly bright smile. “That would be splendid. Thank you.” With that, she arranged her belongings into a makeshift desk… and promptly began writing.
Thoroughly dismissing him and completely forgetting about his presence. Assuming he’d leave.
The insolent chit.
Such had always been the way with Lady Emilia. A truth that rankled even more now.
If he were a proper gentleman—which he always was—then he’d do just that.
“What in blazes are you doing?”
He was fair certain that cursing in front of the lady he was tasked with “showing a good time” would not earn his mother’s approval. But a gentleman had to draw the damned line somewhere.
“Writing,” she offered distractedly, not raising her gaze from the page. Her fingers flew as she wrote… whatever it was that occupied her attention. “You needn’t worry about me. I’ll not bother you while you play your…” Not breaking with her task, she waved her spare hand at the air. “Game. In fact, you may go about doing so now. I’m just going to…”
The young woman had already forgotten him.
“As she always did,” he muttered, alternating his focus between the minx, his billiards table, and the door.
“As I always did what?” She paused to glance back.
Heath’s neck heated. Apparently, the lady hadn’t been so engrossed that she’d failed to hear that. “I didn’t…”
“You said, ‘As she always did,’ to which I ask, what do I always do?”
This would be the moment the spitfire paid him some notice. But then, in fairness, every exchange they’d had from childhood to this moment had occurred before someone else. Never alone.
“You misheard me. I said, surely you kid,” he smoothly put forward, and when presented with having the too-clever chit ferret out his lies, he opted to be the one to retreat. After all, nothing good could come from them being alone here.
Heath returned his cue to the rack at the back of the room.
“Lady Emilia,” he said, sketching a bow.
The chit didn’t even look up.
“I’ll leave you to your… pastimes.” Which begged the question, what in blazes were her pastimes? More specifically—his gaze dipped to the small leather journal she scribbled so frantically upon—what in blazes was she writing so intently? He squinted.
His interloper glanced up.
Emilia narrowed her eyes and lay her arms in a protective shield over those pages, hiding the words written there. “My lord,” she said impatiently. She did not, however, make any attempt to stand and dip a curtsy… as every last fawning lady who hoped for the title of future duchess did before he even fully entered a room.
Dropping another bow, Heath beat a hasty retreat and conceded the room to Lady Emilia.
The moment Lord Heath vacated his billiards room, Emilia gave her head a bemused shake.
Now, that had come to be the all-too-familiar and expected response from Lord Heath. All of it.
Coolly polite. More than faintly aloof. And then dashing off.
Such had been his ways since… well, forever. Since she’d been a girl and he an older boy who’d had neither patience nor a moment to spare for his mother’s young goddaughter.
It was why she’d known that Lord Heath’s desire to send her on her way moments ago hadn’t been driven by any concern about her parents’ sensibilities or a belief in her charades-playing skills.
Which she was rather masterful at.
That detail, however, was neither here nor there.
Emilia faced forward, determined to renew her work and reread the handful of sentences she’d written in response to the latest question from one of her readers.
If a gentleman treats you as though you are invisible, you are better off with his disinterest. But also, be reasonably suspicious of a gentleman who shows a fawning interest in you. A lady is best served to find a gentleman who wishes to be with her, but is not false in that desire.
Emilia paused midsentence and reread the words there. Words that came from a place of knowing. She’d no wish to be near any person who didn’t genuinely desire her company. Gentlemen, like Lord Heath, with their effusive bows and hasty exits. She’d made fool enough of herself for one bounder. Her interests were now singular and fixed on helping other young women avoid the same missteps she herself had made.
And yet…
Unbidden, her gaze crept back to the door.
It was one thing to remember the lifetime of Lord Heath’s icy disdain toward her. It was altogether different when he’d been the person who’d rescued her this night from certain humiliation at the feet of two societal gossips.
That defense, his opening the door and facing down the harpies, all to protect her had been… unexpected.
And made her think… Nay, it made her see that mayhap there was more to the gentleman, after all. Mayhap she’d misunderstood him, or unfairly judged him, or—
A small scrap of white snagged her notice.
Leaning down, Emilia peered at the page resting on the floor.
It was… a note.
Oh, bloody hell. This was certainly a test of her character and strength.
She forced herself to turn around to resume her work.
It is not your business. It is not your business. It is not…
Emilia tapped her pencil back and forth on her book, from top to bottom. From the corner of her eye, she peeked over at that forlorn scrap of white just lying near the billiard table. After all, any guest might come in and find it. That was, another, less reliable guest. A gossip. Someone who’d read that note and bandy its contents about to the Duke and Duchess of Sutton’s other guests.
Yes, she couldn’t very well leave the note there. In fact, she was the more reliable person to discover said scrap. Setting down her pencil, she stood and hurried over to gather up the note. Unbidden, her gaze skimmed the page.
Why… it was a list of some sort.
Emilia turned it over in her hands. The handwriting was familiar. How did she know that handwriting? How—?
Her eyes widened. “The Duchess of Sutton.” She’d seen enough letters delivered from one duchess to the other to recognize it. She made to fold the page. After all, she couldn’t very well go about reading her godmother’s note.
Except…
Emilia chewed at her lower lip.
It wasn’t truly a note. It was a list about…
Emilia’s gaze dipped once more.
1. Inquire after her interests and take part in those activities with her.
Why… why… A little laugh built in her throat, and she clamped a palm over her mouth to stifle the revealing sound, lest she give herself away. The list was instructions, more than anything, advising the recipient on how to woo one of the guests. The Duchess of Sutton was playing matchmaker, and as her youngest son had already wed, it could only mean she sought to maneuver Lord Heath, her eldest and the ducal heir, into a match with an unnamed lady.
This time, she couldn’t help it. Her laughter, pulled from her, more unrestrained and freeing than any other laugh she’d laughed these past ten years.
Emilia warred with herself. It was the height of rudeness to read another person’s notes. Although… Emilia was Lady Sutton’s goddaughter, and just as important, Emilia was London’s most notorious columnist with matchmaking advice.
Why… it would be rude to not read the note and secretly offer help where she could to Lord Heath and his nameless lady.
2. She arises early for the morning meal. (Six o’clock punctually.) Break your fast with her.
Another young woman who rose at six o’clock. Splendid. As one who herself rose early and supped before most of the house had even begun to stir, it would certainly make it all the easier to identify the young lady’s identity.
3. Be a good conversationalist to her. Express an interest in whatever subject she speaks to you on. Ask questions. Ladies like to know people care about what they are talking about.
It was generally good advice the duchess had written down for her son. And yet…
“Based on our last run-in, Lord Heath, you’re going to require assistance with those instructions,” she murmured and kept reading.
4. Do try to make her laugh. She’s still hurting.
Emilia’s heart tugged as all her earlier amusement fled. The woman had been hurt. It was a sentiment Emilia could identify with all too well. She sighed and hurried through the remainder of the duchess’ list.
5. If she seems upset, it is your gentlemanly responsibility and duty to somehow cheer her up.
Lord Heath wouldn’t know how. He’d be the last person who’d ever be capable of cheer, let alone cheering anyone up. Either way, the subject of this note was not unlike Emilia of years ago: an object of pity and well-meaning intentions by some and gossip by all. As such, this was not Emilia’s business.
She made to refold the note when her gaze snagged on a heavily underlined and starred note:
Do **not**, under any circumstances, discuss her—
Emilia stumbled, unable to vocalize the remaining two directives. Do **not**, under any circumstances, discuss her betrothal to that scoundrel you call friend.
“It is my business,” she breathed, her eyes immediately going back to that last item. Then, with something akin to horror, she reread the other familiar details about the mystery lady written upon the note.
Why… why… She gasped and dropped the page as if burned. Why, why, I am the object to be pitied. She was the one her godmother had ordered her son to see to.
The duchess wasn’t matchmaking, she was coordinating events for the pitiable spinster. Which was—she cringed—somehow even worse than being the subject of a matchmaking.
The tightening in her chest was not a product of her memories of Connell.
Rather, Emilia’s hurt came from the fact that the world would forever see her—and remember her—for how she’d been treated by that feckless cad.
Even her parents, her godparents, Polite Society, and, by the contents of this note, Lord Heath saw only her marital failings when they looked at her.
That item on his mother’s list no doubt accounted for his earlier rescue. The gentleman who hadn’t mustered more than a casual mention to her of the weather these past years had suddenly intervened on her behalf with the two gossips earlier? Now it at last made sense.
Well, they could all go hang. She hardly needed anyone to cheer her up or converse with her or rescue her or… or… “Anything I want,” she whispered into the quiet. Her mind slowed and then resumed racing at a brisk clip. Hurriedly picking up the piece of paper, she reread the suddenly interesting again note. They’d all but handed Emilia that which she’d sought for this painful house party—an excuse to be away from her mother’s matchmaking attempts and the other guests’ gossip. For the first time since she’d discovered the letter, a genuine smile curled her lips.
Emilia returned the paper to its earlier place on the floor. Mayhap Lord Heath might be of service to her, after all.