The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries (7)

Ophelia settled her ample body on the settee across from Randolph’s chair, then slipped her aching foot out of her slipper and propped it on a horsehair footstool. She was certainly paying for so many hours on her feet last night. And now her brother was on the rampage. It was too much to be borne.

“Well?” Randolph groused. “Where is the blasted chit?”

“She’ll be down shortly, I’m sure.” Ophelia yawned. “You must give the girl time to sleep, or she won’t suit your purpose.”

“As if she suits my purpose now. I still have not heard what happened at the ball. Is that why you sent her right up to bed last night, even though I told her to report to me at once? Were you protecting her because you knew she had not discovered anything?”

“I sent her up to bed because she was dead on her feet.”

“After one trifling ball that ended barely after midnight?”

“No. After dancing lessons and a full day of shopping for accessories and then a ball during which she danced every dance.”

“At my expense, too.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to rub her foot. “If you didn’t want to do this right, you should’ve told me. I would’ve dressed her in sackcloth and ashes and stuck her in a corner at every event.”

Randolph’s sole response was to scowl. He never had appreciated her particular sense of humor. “Well, the girl had best have something to tell me when she comes down. I shall not keep up this entertainment for her if she cannot produce anything.”

“Entertainment?” Ophelia’s short bark of laughter sounded loud in the early-morning quiet of the town house. “She seems to consider it torture.” When Randolph looked at her with narrowed eyes, she added very deliberately, “I can’t imagine why, though. If she didn’t want to come, all she had to do was say so. Am I right?”

He jerked his gaze from hers, his mouth puckering sourly.

Time for a more direct approach. “Randolph, what did you tell Emily to make her agree to your plan? Clearly, she finds this scheme distasteful. You should have seen her after the ball last night. She was skittish as a mouse in a cat’s paw.”

“Did she behave like that at the ball, too? That is not what we agreed upon, you know. I wanted her to—”

“Randolph! Silence your wagging tongue for a moment, will you?” He glowered at her, but thankfully kept quiet. “You needn’t worry about Emily. During the ball, she was as bold and impudent as you could wish. She had every man in the place eating out of her pretty hand and thinking her the most ‘original’ creature alive.”

“Then why was she skittish?”

“Because she obviously found the experience taxing and intimidating.”

Ophelia was certain that Emily’s encounter with Blackmore had been partly responsible for the girl’s somber mood on the way home, though Randolph needn’t know that just yet. She’d prodded Emily to reveal what had happened between her and that rapscallion, but the girl had evaded her questions.

There was something going on there; Ophelia would stake her life on it. And that was trouble indeed. From what she’d heard, Blackmore would chew up a little thing like Emily and spit her out. Ophelia didn’t wish to see that, for she was growing very fond of the child.

“As for my original question,” she continued, refusing to let Randolph draw her away from her immediate concern, “why is she willing to help Sophie at the expense of her own integrity? What hold do you have over poor Emily?”

“Hold?!!” He puffed himself up like an adder. “Hold, indeed. Her father owes his livelihood to me. That is all the hold I have over her.” Casting her a sidelong glance, he added, “Besides, I am sure you have already asked the girl that very question, since you like to stick your nose where it does not belong. What does she say?”

His question told her at once that he was hiding something. “She won’t tell me anything, as I’m sure you know. Thanks to you, she doesn’t trust either of us.”

Looking relieved, he stood and limped over to the fireplace. “Nonsense. She knows her duty, that’s all.”

Ophelia sighed. She ought to press the matter further. But she’d learned long ago that if she forced Randolph into a corner, he would risk the bite of the deadliest snake before he’d tell her anything. And Randolph already had quite enough venom coursing through his veins.

But she could work on the girl. Emily didn’t like lying, that much was clear. If only Ophelia could gain her trust…

As if conjured up by the thought, Emily herself entered, already dressed for the breakfast at Lady Astramont’s. With approval, Ophelia noted the girl’s choice of the rose corded cambric. Emily had a natural sense of style that made everything so much easier.

With a quick glance at Randolph, who was staring into the fire with his back to the door, Emily crossed to Ophelia and handed her a cheesecloth bag.

“This is for your foot,” she said in a low voice. “Mix these herbs with hot water. They make an excellent soak for sore feet.”

Ophelia took the bag with a smile. “Thank you, my dear. It’s very kind of you to make it up for me.”

Randolph whirled around. “What? What are you two about?”

Quickly Ophelia hid the cheesecloth bag in her skirts. For some reason Randolph didn’t approve of Emily’s ministrations, although anyone could see the girl had a talent for physic. “She’s saying good morning, you fool. What do you think?”

“It’s about time you showed up,” he growled at Emily. “Kept me waiting all night, you did. Sit down. I want a full account of the ball.”

Emily settled carefully on the edge of a wing-backed chair to keep from mussing her gown. “How much has Lady Dundee told you?”

“Nothing at all, blast her. Who danced with you? Did anyone ask for Sophie?”

“Let me see. I danced with Mr. Pollock, Lord St. Clair, Lord Wilkins, Lord Radcliffe, Lord Blakely, and Mr. Wallace.”

How odd that she didn’t mention Blackmore, Ophelia thought. Hadn’t she danced with the earl, too? Ophelia wasn’t entirely certain.

“All of them expressed their condolences for Sophie’s illness,” Emily went on, “but only Lord St. Clair and Mr. Pollock seemed overly interested. Both of them asked repeatedly when Sophie would be attending social events again. And as you know, Lord St. Clair called on her yesterday.”

“Yes, I know about that. And I do find it curious. St. Clair is something of a mystery. I heard he was estranged from his father for some secret reason that no one will discuss. He left England for several years, and no one knows why. He only returned last year. But I’ve heard the most dreadful stories of what he did while he was on the continent…”

And of course, Ophelia thought, Randolph believed every word. His own son had run off to the continent, so he was suspicious of any other young man who’d done the same.

Randolph began to pace, stabbing his cane into the Aubusson carpet every few steps. “Anyway, he and I had a bit of a talk once, and I told him that rumor had it he was not fit to marry any young woman. I let him know that I would not countenance any union between him and my daughter. You know what the impudent scoundrel had the audacity to say? That Sophie was the only person whose opinion he cared about.” He snorted. “As if a girl of that age knows what she wants. A pretty lad—that is all a girl of eighteen looks for.”

“That’s not true,” Emily retorted. “I think your daughter has more sense than to choose a man simply because he has nice features.”

Ophelia wasn’t so sure herself, but said nothing on that score. She didn’t know her niece that well. “We set a trap for St. Clair,” Ophelia told Randolph. “We told him we’d be at the breakfast and that Sophie would be here alone. If he comes here—”

“If he comes here,” Randolph put in, “I shall be on the lookout. We will see how he acts and if he goes snooping about the house without permission. That would certainly tell us he was the one.”

“Do try to control yourself,” Ophelia cautioned. “We mustn’t scare away the prey or show our hand prematurely. If word of what happened to Sophie leaks out because you approach some man too soon, it’ll ruin her chances in the future. St. Clair may behave quite innocently, in which case you mustn’t approach him.”

“I think I can be trusted to show caution.” Randolph halted his pacing, then peered through his lorgnette at Emily. “What about Pollock?”

“I’m not sure. He seemed only moderately interested.”

“Pollock has a fortune, but is merely a mister,” Randolph said. “He knows I would never accept the suit of any man with rank less than a viscount. Sophie deserves the best.”

Sophie deserved to be paddled soundly for putting them to all this trouble, Ophelia thought. Yet sometimes she almost sympathized with the girl. Having Randolph for a father couldn’t have been easy.

“What if one of these men really cared for her?” Emily ventured. “What if Sophie were in love with one of them—”

“In love? Trust me, Miss Fairchild, love makes no difference. It soon vanishes, and then, if you have chosen the wrong partner, you find yourself unhappily yoked with someone who causes you only shame.”

Heavens, Ophelia realized, Randolph was alluding to his own disastrous marriage! Apparently fancying himself in love, he’d married a girl much beneath him who’d turned out to be a vulgar and outspoken little twit prone to embarrassing him with great frequency. She’d given him a son who’d been a constant disappointment. But she’d had the decency, in Randolph’s words, to die giving birth to Sophie, thus sparing Randolph a lifetime of mortification.

Unfortunately, with no one else around to garner Randolph’s attention once his heir ran off, Sophie had become the center of his domain, the only one he could control. It was killing him to have her out from under his thumb, which was why he was going to all this trouble.

“In any case,” Randolph blustered on, “what Sophie wants is immaterial. I know what is best for the girl. Neither Pollock nor St. Clair is acceptable. We must focus our attention on those two, since both are likely candidates. But was there no one else? No one who paid particular attention to you even if he said nothing of Sophie?”

When Emily colored, Ophelia waited for her to mention Blackmore. But the girl only murmured, “No one,” as she cast Ophelia a pleading look.

Ophelia debated keeping the girl’s secret. But that was pointless. Randolph would find out one way or the other about Blackmore’s interest in her, and there would be hell to pay if they had kept it from him. Besides, Ophelia wanted to see how Emily would react to mention of the rapscallion.

“What about the Earl of Blackmore?” she said, acting as if she misunderstood Emily’s look. “He spoke to you at length before we left.”

As the color crept across Emily’s face until even her ears were red, Randolph pivoted to face the young woman.

“Blackmore?” Randolph punctuated the word with a loud rap of his cane. “That scoundrel approached you? How could you forget to mention him after what happened at the Drydens’ ball?”

Very interesting, Ophelia thought. “What happened at the Drydens’ ball, Randolph? Do tell.”

“The blackguard danced with my Sophie, that’s what. Him with his reputation, presuming to touch a pure girl like Sophie! It was an outrage, and I told him so when I wrested her away from him!”

Ophelia could easily imagine the awful scene her brother had made.

“Lord Blackmore spoke to me only briefly last night,” Emily protested. “And he didn’t even mention Sophie.”

“He wouldn’t,” Randolph growled. “That one is a fox, too clever by half. But he is a more likely candidate than the other two, I promise you.”

“Don’t be absurd, Randolph. Why would Blackmore try to elope with Sophie?” Blackmore most certainly had his eye on a particular young woman, but Ophelia would wager a king’s ransom it wasn’t her insipid niece. “The man’s no fortune hunter. Besides, he can have any heiress he wants merely by crooking his finger, so he needn’t endure your wrath for Sophie.”

Randolph leaned forward on his cane, his eyes lit with malevolence. “I’m not saying he had any intention of marrying her, mind you. His sort delights in debauching women as an amusement.”

“Oh, really, Randolph—” Ophelia began.

“You think I exaggerate. But he and I are enemies, and I humiliated him in front of all those people at the Drydens’ ball. He might have decided to humiliate me by ruining my daughter. It is exactly the sort of thing a scoundrel like him would do.”

Ophelia tried to imagine Blackmore being humiliated by her brother’s making an ass of himself at a ball. More likely, Blackmore had laughed his head off. “You really are insane, you know. If Blackmore had carried Sophie off, then refused to marry her, he would have blackened his name in good society for the rest of his life. No one would countenance such behavior. He’s never done anything of that sort, and I see no reason for him to begin it now.”

Randolph grew sullen at her appeal to logic. Ophelia marveled at his amazing irrationality regarding Sophie. Any fool knew Blackmore wouldn’t stoop to such petty vengeance.

Emily listened to the discussion with growing trepidation. She’d never considered Jordan a candidate for Sophie’s lover, but certain niggling memories now assailed her. His kisses when they were out in the carriage. His behavior toward Lady Emma in the garden. He claimed not to care for young innocents, but there were essentially three to whom he’d made advances, if she considered both her personas and Sophie.

And yet…those had all been instances of impulse, and in the case of Lady Emma, most assuredly provoked. Would he truly set out to defame a young woman? He hadn’t seemed the least concerned about Lord Nesfield’s behavior toward him at the Drydens’ ball.

She couldn’t believe he would ruin Sophie for such poor reasons. Still, he might have tried to elope with her. After Lord Nesfield had shown his disapproval, Jordan might have thought elopement the only way to ensure his success with Sophie.

Even Jordan’s treatment of her last night could be interpreted that way. He’d been suspicious of her—perhaps because he feared a trap. Otherwise, why would he be so determined to unmask her? Why care if she was an impostor? And he had attended a marriage mart, which was certainly out of character. Had he been looking for Sophie?

Then again, he’d always protested violently that he didn’t want a wife. And why had he kissed Emily and Lady Emma with such passion if he loved Sophie? The very thought of him caring for Sophie made jealousy explode in her brain. No, she wouldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t make advances to her if he wanted Sophie.

Unless his advances were an attempt to trick her into telling him what was going on! She scowled and rubbed her temples. Trying to guess Jordan’s motives was giving her the most awful headache.

Suddenly, she realized both Lady Dundee and Lord Nesfield were staring at her.

“Do you feel all right?” Lady Dundee asked.

Sophie dropped her hands from her temples and pasted a smile on her face. “Yes, of course. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“You listen to me, young woman, and you listen well,” Lord Nesfield growled. “Blackmore is as much a suspect as the others. Keep your eye on him, you hear me? And tell me everything he does, every word he speaks to you. You can begin by telling me what he said last night.”

Her headache immediately worsened. Now she had to invent more stories—she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth.

When this was over, she would never get herself into such a fix again. It would be truth and honesty from then on out. Lying was much too taxing.

 

Lady Astramont proved to be a little hummingbird of a woman, giddy and silly and prone to exaggeration. As soon as her butler ushered Emily and Lady Dundee into her wide marble foyer, she fluttered toward them, all smiles.

“I’m so glad you could come, Ophelia!” The woman had a trilling voice to match her hummingbird figure. “How many years has it been? Fifteen? Twenty? I swear, you don’t look a day over twenty-five! That Scottish air must be good for the skin.”

“It’s not the air, Hortense, but good Scottish food that keeps me young.” Lady Dundee tapped her plump cheek. “It fills out all the wrinkles.”

Looking flustered by Lady Dundee’s forthright allusion to her amplitude, Lady Astramont quickly turned to Emily. “And this must be your daughter. My, my, she is a pretty one. She takes after you, doesn’t she?”

“Oh, yes.” Lady Dundee’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “She’s a veritable copy of her mother.”

“I can see that,” Lady Astramont said earnestly.

Emily had to stifle her laughter as Lady Astramont led them through the foyer toward the parlor. Emily did her best not to stare, but it was hard to ignore the ostentation of Lady Astramont’s house. Lady Dundee had said that Lady Astramont had more money than sense, and that was certainly evident in the vulgar display of wealth that surrounded her. Gilt vases, marble statues everywhere, lavish curtains of gold silk…it was bright enough to blind a person.

And all Emily could think was how much food for the poor such wealth could buy.

“Everyone’s in the garden,” Lady Astramont explained as they crossed the parlor to a set of French doors of cut crystal. “The weather was so nice, we set up the tables out there. But you won’t believe the excitement. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“What’s that?” Lady Dundee asked.

Lady Astramont stopped, peeking over her shoulder before she lowered her voice to an annoying twitter. “You’ll never guess who accepted my invitation.” She paused for effect. “Lord Blackmore. The great earl himself. At my breakfast! Oh, I shall never have to worry about acceptances again after this. He rarely attends anything, and then only the most fashionable affairs.”

Emily’s blood thundered in her ears. Jordan. Coming here. Dear heavens, she wasn’t ready for this. It was all she could do to keep her eyes focused straight ahead when she felt Lady Dundee’s questioning gaze on her. Jordan had said they weren’t finished. Obviously, he’d meant it.

“It’s the most exciting thing to happen in years!” Lady Astramont blathered on. “And you, my dear friend, here to see it! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, wonderful,” the countess said dryly. “Is Blackmore already here?”

“Oh, dear me, no. That would be too much to ask. I’m sure he’ll arrive late, which is his prerogative, of course. He is Blackmore, after all. But he sent his acceptance this very morning, so I believe he truly intends on coming.”

As it happened, it was another hour before the earl made his appearance. Though Emily tried not to notice when he arrived, it was impossible to ignore. His entrance into the garden with Lady Astramont on his arm was like a stone thrown into a lake, producing ever-widening ripples of gossip and speculation.

Apparently, no one had believed Lady Astramont’s assertions that the earl was planning to attend a breakfast that only those of little consequence attended. They’d assumed Lady Astramont was lying in a futile effort to enhance her social standing.

Now that he was here, everyone had to offer a whispered opinion to their neighbors on why he’d condescended to attend. And since nearly everyone had heard about his dancing with Lady Emma at the ball, most of the speculation focused on her.

Oh, why couldn’t they all hush? She’d never imagined that such a lot of gossips and frivolous rumormongers ruled London society. Clearly, nobody had enough to do. For goodness sake, how could they move about a city like London every day and not notice all that needed to be changed and all the people who needed help? If they’d only channel their energies into something useful instead of repeating mindless tales, the world would be vastly improved.

Lady Astramont’s chirping voice carried across the lawn. “Lord Blackmore, I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Do try the roast duck. It’s your favorite, is it not? And there’s an apple tart and…”

As she babbled on inanely, Emily cast a quick glance at Jordan. Although he had a faintly pained look on his face, like that of a man wearing shoes that pinched, he responded to the woman’s gushes with a charming smile and some murmured words about how glad he was to attend.

It took Emily by surprise. After the way everybody had spoken of him—as if he were the Deity Himself—she’d half expected him to be cold and barely civil to their fawning hostess. Although she didn’t like Lady Astramont any more than he probably did, she felt kindly enough toward the woman not to wish her to be treated condescendingly in her own home. It warmed her that he felt the same.

Still, Emily could hardly blame him when he extricated himself from Lady Astramont’s clinging arm as soon as possible. He spared Emily a long glance that told her exactly why he’d come, then took his time making the rounds of the other guests, like a tiger toying with his prey.

He waited until Lady Astramont carried off Lady Dundee, the second most important guest at the breakfast, for a tour of her house. Then he sauntered toward where Emily sat on a garden chair beneath an oak.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. Mr. Pollock, who’d apparently also decided to attend at the last minute, had been at her side throughout the breakfast. Until then, his plaintive complaints about the bright sun and “ghastly” poached salmon had begun to wear on her. Mr. Pollock had the tendency to act as if their acquaintance was more intimate than she recognized. Still, she was grateful to have him nearby now that Jordan was here.

Pollock scowled as Jordan reached them. “Afternoon, Blackmore.”

“Good afternoon, Pollock. Lady Emma.”

She nodded coolly. “Where’s your friend Lord St. Clair?” Was he even now falling into their trap?

“Ian doesn’t attend many social occasions.”

“Can’t say I blame him for missing this one,” Pollock retorted. “I’m surprised to see you here, Blackmore. It’s not like you to socialize with Lady Astramont.”

“Nor you. But I dare say you’re here for the same reason I am.” Jordan’s gaze drifted to Emily. “I came to see Lady Astramont’s garden, of course. I’ve been told it contains some truly original flowers.”

When hot color flooded her cheeks, Pollock positively glowered at Jordan. “Yes, I forgot—you like trampling flowers underfoot, don’t you?”

“Not at all. The perfect flower needs the perfect setting, however, and I’m here to ensure that it gets one.”

“Oh? What do you consider the perfect setting?” Pollock said sourly. “In your buttonhole?”

“No. In the country.” He cast Emily a lazy smile. “That’s where flowers belong, don’t you think?”

Emily met his gaze, every nerve ending screaming with the urge to tell him to go away and leave her alone. In the country, indeed. How could any man look so…so handsome and be such a beast? She’d never seen him in anything but evening dress, and his casual attire today only enhanced his attractions by making him look accessible, even to a rector’s daughter like her.

And younger, too. He leaned against the oak’s trunk like a youthful swain in a pastoral poem, the afternoon sun glinting off his auburn hair and setting it ablaze. His expression was anything but pastoral, however. It taunted her, challenged her to engage in his battle of words.

He thought he was so clever. Say what you think, Lady Dundee had advised. That would be perfectly easy with Jordan. “I’m not sure I understand your trite metaphor of the flower correctly, Lord Blackmore. Do you mean I should return to Scotland?”

“Not at all. I don’t think Scotland would suit you. The English countryside seems more appropriate for a girl with your…attributes.”

Pollock glanced from her to Jordan in bewilderment. “Are you insulting the lady, Blackmore? Because if you are—”

“Insulting her? Of course not. I’m paying her a compliment. Scotland is too barren and cold for a woman as lovely as she. Our English countryside is much warmer and better suited for such beauty.”

“Not all of Scotland is barren and cold,” she retorted, determined not to let him have the last word. “Parts of it are quite lush and green.”

“All I’ve seen is Edinburgh and the land surrounding it,” he responded, “but it wasn’t to my taste. I prefer our simple English meadows. They’re not quite so…wild and unpredictable.”

She flushed at his reference to her behavior last night. He was still convinced that she was an impostor, and now he was bent on exposing her publicly. Heaven help her.

“Haven’t been to Scotland myself,” Pollock interjected, determined to jump into the conversation. He cast Emily an oddly possessive glance. “What’s it like?”

“Yes,” Jordan said coolly, “do tell us what it’s like, Lady Emma.”

Emily went blank…until she caught sight of Lady Dundee, looking out one of the upstairs windows. Bits and pieces of what the countess had told her floated into her mind, spoken in the woman’s homesick tones. Lady Dundee had made her see Dundee Castle and its lands with perfect clarity. After all, what was a place but what one saw in it?

She gazed up at Jordan, but in her mind, she looked into Lady Dundee’s face, heard her wistful voice. “Scotland as a whole? I can’t begin to describe it all. But Dundee Castle in Campbell Glen, where we live, stands at the top of a grassy hill with slopes as soft as silk that careen down toward a perfect, clear lake.”

“The Scottish call them ‘lochs,’” Jordan said dryly.

“Yes, of course. I didn’t think you’d know that, being English.” She went on. “Beyond the loch is a craggy mountain where we played as children. The wind and rain have carved the rocks into fantastical shapes, so that it looks like gargoyles watching over us when we swim.”

“Swim?” Pollock said. “Isn’t the water too cold for swimming?”

“Most of the year, yes.” She stared off in the distance, lost in the tales the countess had spun for her. “But in the middle of summer, it’s warm enough. Even Mama swims then. And when the sun sets behind the hill, reaching out its fingers of gold and crimson as if to clutch the earth close a bit longer, there’s no place lovelier.”

“It sounds beautiful,” a female voice said. “Like something out of a dream.”

Only then did Emily realize she’d drawn the rapt attention of several of the ladies.

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Yes, like something out of a dream. Or a fairy tale.”

Mindful of her audience, she said, “The Scottish who live around Campbell Glen do claim that fairies live in the forests beyond Dundee Castle.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you venture into the woods at night, you can see them, like a thousand fireflies, swirling in circles with their tiny, gossamer wings.”

When Jordan snorted, the women glared at him, then moved their chairs closer to her. “Do tell us more. You’ve seen the fairies?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” The general sigh of disappointment led her to add, “But I’ve seen traces of them, of course. Circles in the grass on the hillside.”

“How lovely,” a young woman gushed. “I’ve always thought Scotland the most romantic place.”

“Which only demonstrates that you’ve been reading too many far-fetched tales by that idiot Walter Scott,” Jordan said.

“Have you no romantic feeling in you?” the woman retorted. “Can’t you see how such poetry and stories enrich the soul?”

“Yes,” Emily said mischievously, “have you no romantic feeling in you, Lord Blackmore?”

“Blackmore doesn’t have feelings at all, much less romantic ones.” Pollock lounged back in his flimsy wooden chair. “He doesn’t even believe in love. Just last night, he told me love was a fickle emotion for fools to indulge in. Ladies, you see before you a man incapable of romantic feeling.”

Emily’s gaze shot to Jordan.

“Pollock has caught me out, I’m afraid.” Jordan’s voice was as chilly and black as a coal cellar in winter. “I don’t waste time on poetry and ‘romantic feeling’ and such nonsense. As for love, it’s a luxury I can’t afford. I’m much too busy to waste time on spurious emotions.”

“Then your life must be dreary indeed,” Emily said sincerely. “Life is worth nothing without such luxuries. I pity anyone who has no time for them.”

His eyes narrowed to slits, yet she didn’t regret her words. Someone should have said them to him long ago. He shouldn’t go through life believing himself above the very human emotions of his fellow men and women. No wonder he had a reputation for coldness, for being completely controlled.

Every eye was on the two of them now, but Emily ignored their audience, assailed by a profound curiosity to know what had shaped him into this ice figure. It must have been something very tragic. Or perhaps he was just the rare creature born without the urge to love. If so, she pitied him even more.

When the silence stretched out and became awkward, Pollock suddenly said, “Lady Emma, would you take a turn with me about the garden? I don’t believe you’ve seen Lady Astramont’s roses yet.”

Dragging her gaze from Jordan, she cast Pollock a smile. “I certainly haven’t. I’d be pleased indeed if you would show them to me.”

Pollock offered his arm and she clasped it eagerly, glad to escape Jordan’s dark looks and bitter opinions. But as they walked away, Jordan called out, “Lady Emma?”

She halted and turned her head to look at him. “Yes?”

“After you’re done with Pollock, I want a word with you.”

He said it as if there was no question of her agreeing. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and they clearly expected the same. After all, he was quite an eligible catch. If he wanted a word with her, she was expected to drop all other amusements to indulge him.

But she knew what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to trick her into revealing the truth, especially now that she’d roused his fury by criticizing him. She daren’t allow that.

“I’m afraid that will be impossible, Lord Blackmore. I promised Mama that we could leave as soon as she finished seeing Lady Astramont’s house, and she must be nearly done. I’m sure she’ll meet up with us while we are in the gardens.”

An angry flush darkened his handsome face. Being refused anything by a woman was clearly as unfamiliar to him as taking tea on the moon. Well, too bad. As long as he couldn’t be certain she was Emily Fairchild, he wouldn’t dare to expose her.

“Another time perhaps,” he clipped out.

“Yes, another time.” Feeling more sure of herself, she walked off with Pollock.

Another time, indeed. If she had her way, it would come when pigs flew and fish took ferries, and not a minute sooner.