Chapter Eleven
Emma spent the rest of the evening accepting as many requests to dance as she could fit on her card, determined to keep Lord Tidworth at bay. If he so much as breathed in her general direction—which he seemed alarmingly determined to do, following her around the room no matter where she turned—she took refuge with another dance partner, until finally he gave up the chase and disappeared off to the card room.
Thank heaven.
It was Miss Philippa who precipitated their departure from the ball, by spilling a large glass of port down her tunic, making her look more like Clytemnestra than a decent English gentlewoman. Mr. Charles made no effort to bid his host farewell, for which Emma was extremely grateful. She was too exhausted to face the viscount or his parents, and her efforts to avoid the man had left her nerves in shreds.
Philippa dozed off almost as soon as their carriage lurched away down the tree-lined drive, but Charles, despite a slight slur in his speech, was wakeful.
“What exactly did you do to put Tidworth in such a pet?” he asked her.
Should she tell him about the incident on the road before her arrival at Figheldene? Perhaps not.
“He recognized me,” she said. “We met briefly when he was last at your house. He didn’t like our jest—he thought we were making fun of his guests and felt it unfair when they were all donating grand amounts to his good cause.”
Charles sniffed. “He used not to be so particular. His experiences during the war took all the humor out of him.”
Ah. That would explain a lot. “I didn’t realize he’d been a soldier. Was he wounded?”
“Only minor injuries—a couple of saber cuts and some fractures, all long since healed. But his older brother, Nathaniel, died of gangrene in a veterans’ hospital before his parents could get him home.”
“But that’s awful!”
“Yes, but don’t look so gloomy, my dear Miss Hibbert. James is not to be pitied. While you and I have not a feather to fly with, Tidworth’s so well set up, he can afford to give it away in barrow loads. He’s been a bore tonight. Let’s decide how we will punish him.”
Revenge was the last thing she wanted—what would that achieve? It was better not to make an enemy of a man of his station. She’d already told him she came from a once-great family, and if he decided to make inquiries… Mrs. Keane would not be impressed to discover Emma had hidden her true identity. And without a good reference, what chance did she have of finding another respectable position?
She shook her head. “Some of what he said may well have been deserved. I think he was trying to speak to me so he could apologize. Please, forget about it.”
Charles drew a finger around the neck of his Harlequin costume, then unclipped his ruff and yanked it off. “Stupid piece of neckwear,” he muttered. “Yes, James Markham, Viscount Tidworth. I would say he’s a capital fellow, mostly. Not really like him to be rude to ladies. Although I can easily guess why he’s sensitive these days.”
Emma sat forward. “Why?”
“Because, not very long ago, he was jilted by the woman he intended to marry.”
“That must have hit him hard,” she said, recalling the conversation she’d heard below the schoolroom window. “I assume they didn’t make it as far as the altar?”
“No, it didn’t get that far. He courted her for a year, but she was corresponding with another man the whole time. Poor show. Very shabby to treat a decent sort like James that way.”
Her jaw dropped. Even she would be forced to think twice if she received an offer from the Earl of Rossbury’s heir. And she had plenty of reason to distrust the attentions of handsome, magnetically attractive aristocrats.
“Was he at fault, perhaps?” she asked. “He wasn’t very gentlemanly toward me.”
“He would never have hurt Belinda. He was truly smitten. She’s very beautiful, you know. Would you like me to unfasten your ruff? You’ll be more comfortable, I’m sure. Turn around.”
She turned around obediently, barely aware of the touch of Charles’s fingers as her mind raced. It had become clear to her that Tidworth was a proud man, and such treatment must have severely dented his pride. Even if it was extremely good news for all the matchmaking mamas.
Charles’s hands were now in her hair, removing the pins that secured her headdress. It was a relief to be rid of it.
“Did he tell you the particulars?” she asked. “Or is it just hearsay?”
“You have delightful hair, Miss Hibbert—long and silky. I could stroke you like a cat.”
“I pray you will not, Mr. Charles,” she said, in her most imperious voice. Why was he toying with her? She must be on her guard, after what she’d heard from behind that curtain.
He laughed softly and ceased his stroking, but his eyes held hers. She treated him to her best Governess Look.
With a long-suffering sigh, he said, “Oh, very well, if all you want to do is talk about Tidworth. The love rival was a Mr. Cornwallis, a rich nabob from India. Hmm. India seems a good place to make fortunes. I wonder if I should consider it? Anyway, it seems James got wind the fellow was coming back and worried he might ask for the chit’s hand, so he decided to steal a march on him, just in case.”
She nodded. “Very sensible.”
“He’s still convinced that if he’d got there first, she’d have accepted him. But he was held up on the road, and Cornwallis beat him to it, seducing Miss Carslake with a hideously gaudy and expensive ring. James hasn’t been his proper self since.”
Emma’s heart thudded uncomfortably. The scenario sounded all too familiar. It took a moment before she felt brave enough to ask, “What was the cause of the delay on the road?”
“A fall from a horse, I believe. Some well-meaning passersby stopped him from riding on, threatened him with a weapon.” He snorted. “What kind of good Samaritan would do that? Poor James, it was most unfortunate. Perhaps I should seduce the beauteous Belinda myself, and teach that Cornwallis fellow a lesson.”
Emma couldn’t find the heart to respond. Guilt flooded through her entire being. She had, quite inadvertently, ruined Viscount Tidworth’s hopes of happiness. No wonder he’d been so angry with her since he’d met her again!
Charles frowned at her. “Come now, Miss Hibbert, I declare I’m quite jealous. All this brooding over my friend, and not a thought for me? Come, kiss me—I’ve been waiting for the opportunity all evening.”
Before she could gather her scattered wits about her, his hand was tangled in her hair and his mouth ranged hungrily over her own. Horrified, she put her hands on his chest to push him away.
But he was not to be deterred. He merely gathered her more closely in his arms, stifling her cries of protest with ever more ardent lips, until she took the only recourse she could think of—she kicked Philippa.
It was almost comical the speed with which Charles withdrew from her when he heard his sister’s mewl of complaint. Fortunately, Miss Philippa was too befuddled with sleep to notice anything amiss. Sitting upright against the squabs, she inquired, “Are we there yet?”
Emma sat back in her seat, tilting a defiant chin at Charles. He’d caught her by surprise this time.
It was not going to happen again.