Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (35 page)

Emma looked around the room just to make sure they were alone before leaning in and saying very quietly into his ear, “I raced from London to Newmarket in my curricle and broke Sir Leopold’s record.”

The gentleman’s brow furrowed and then cleared. “I know of you. You’re the Harlow Hoyden.”

“
C’est moi
,” she said.

“You are notorious.” An interested smile hovered over his lips.

She shrugged. “Only a little and I do not mind much. It keeps the serious suitors away and leaves me to my freedom.”

“The Harlow Hoyden,” he said under his breath. “Sir Leopold’s record stood untouched for three years and you broke it by two minutes.”

“Two minutes and seven seconds,” she said, identical dimples revealing themselves in both her cheeks. “I’m an excellent whipster and would have done better if Roger hadn’t been with me. I had to take him along for propriety’s sake. Sometimes propriety is the very devil, is it not, sir?”

He nodded. “Speaking of propriety, you should return to the party. Surely your absence has been remarked on.”

Emma knew it was true—she herself had said the same thing several times—but now that the moment had arrived, she was reluctant to end this delightful interlude. “You are right. Thank you for your help, sir.” She turned and walked away.

She was almost at the door when he called her name. “Miss Harlow, I believe you said a waltz.” She nodded. “Until tomorrow then, my dear.”

A few moments later, Emma returned to her mother’s side, very pleased with that afternoon’s work.

Miss Lavinia Harlow stared at the ill-gotten specimen with greedy eyes. “Why, it’s beautiful, Emma,” she said, holding the flower gently in her experienced hands. “I’ve never beheld such a perfect flower in all my life. That shade of yellow is uncommonly bright, almost like the sun itself, and the shape of the petals— Do you see how the edges are almost like an antique lace veil? That’s a characteristic of the
digbyana,
but these petals have a touch of the
fuertesii
about them. Notice how perfectly round it is and how no light travels in the spaces between the petals? That’s highly unusual. And look at the habit of spike, so thick and strong.” With a delicate finger, she illustrated all the excellent points of the orchid.

Her sister, whose interest in orchids had ended the second she handed the flower to Lavinia, yawned. What she’d told the helpful gentleman this afternoon was true. She had no interest in learning about plants.

“The texture is sublime. Run your hand over the petal. Go on.” Emma complied absently. “See how it’s soft and fleshy? And how there’s no droop or flop? These things are the bane of my existence. Try as I might to get it right, my flowers are dull-colored and droopy.”

“Don’t be silly, Vinnie,” her sister dismissed with a wave of her hand. “You won honorable mention at last year’s Horticultural Society exhibition, and this year you shall take home first prize. I just know it. Your skill with plants is remarkable. Now do pay attention. I need your help in choosing my dress for the Bennington ball. I want to look dashing.” She pulled a gown out of her closet and held it up. “What do you think of this one?”

Lavinia was not prepared for the subject change, and she examined her sister with quizzical eyes before shaking her head. “I might have some luck and a true devotion to the pastime, but whoever grew this flower has skill and—” Miss Lavinia Harlow broke off her speech and stared at her younger sister suspiciously. “Emma, darling, from whence did you get this flower?”

With her head deep in the closet and comfortably buried under muslin and crepe, Emma did not hear her sister. “Did you say something, dear?” she asked, pulling out another confection, this time a pink dress decorated with rosettes.

“I asked you where you got this flower.”

Emma stuck her head in the closet and mumbled a reply.

“What’s that?” asked her sister, recognizing a weak ploy when she witnessed one. “Step away from the closet. Your voice is muffled, and I can’t hear a word you say.”

Coming out of the closet, Emma affected her innocent look and said, “Nowhere in particular.”

“Nowhere in particular?” her sister repeated. “You found a diamond-of-the-first-water
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
nowhere in particular? Really, Emma, after all these years, I’d think you’d know me better than to expect me to accept that banbury tale. Where did you find it?”

Emma sighed and said, “You know very well subterfuge does not come easily to me and I would think as my sister you would love me enough to let me lie upon occasion.”

“Emma,” she said threateningly. It was the tone she always used seconds before seeking out their sister-in-law and chaperone.

“All right. It might have been the Duke of Trent’s conservatory,” she confessed.

Lavinia took exception to her choice of words. “It
might
have been?”

“Well, I can’t be sure, can I? I thought it was the conservatory, but there was a man in a large leather armchair reading, so it
may
have been the study.”

There were so many disturbing things about her sister’s behavior that Lavinia didn’t know where to start. “A man saw you steal the Duke of Trent’s prize
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
?” She closed her eyes as if in pain. “There are witnesses to your crime?”

“Dear, don’t be such a melodramatic miss. There was only one witness, and he was a lovely man. Indeed, we’re going to dance the waltz together tomorrow night at the Bennington ball. There’s no cause for alarm.”

“You can’t dance with the man who saw you steal the orchid. What if he tells the duke?”

Emma shrugged. “Let him. I don’t see why the duke should care who his cousin dances with.”

“No, what if the cousin tells the duke you stole his
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
? What a fine pickle that would be. Sir Waldo would be horrified by the scandal, and I can’t say that I’d blame him.”

The mention of her sister’s awful fiancé caused Emma to answer more harshly than she intended. “Well, if Sir Waldo Windbag doesn’t—”

“Wind
bourne.
”

“—like it, then I suggest he align himself with another family. The Harlows of Derbyshire cannot spend their lives worrying about what little thing might set him off. You need someone with less delicate sensibilities, who doesn’t take a pet every time a lady says ‘devil’ in his presence.”

Lavinia, who knew her sister’s passions intimately, gave fair attention to this speech but was unswayed by it. “Your language could stand an improvement, my dear.”

Emma made an inelegant grunt that sounded like something one would hear from a horse.

“You know that Sir Waldo comes from one of the oldest families in England. His people are very proud and correct, and they do not do things the Harlow way. But I believe he’s a good man.”

“Too good,” Emma muttered.

“What dear?”

“Nothing.”

“I know you’re upset that I’m marrying, but it won’t change anything, my darling. You shall see. Sir Waldo is not quite the ogre you think he is. I expect we’ll both be changed by our marriage. He’ll become a little more free in his ways, and I’ll become a little less so. Compromise. That’s what marriage is about.”

Emma’s experience with Sir Waldo had convinced her that he was a man incapable of compromise, especially when dealing with a woman. But she held her tongue, unwilling to fight anymore with her sister. “Please, let’s not tease ourselves over this. The important thing is that you have a flower to show at the Horticultural Society exhibition next month. Now do help me select a dress for tomorrow night’s ball. Imagine! Me
finally
dancing the waltz with a man who’s not a relation.”

“I cannot use this flower,” Lavinia said.

“Why ever not?” Emma asked, beginning to despair of ever finding a dress. When had her wardrobe become so bland and missish?

“It’s not mine. I haven’t raised it. Using it would be a violation of the society’s rules. Besides, think of the scandal if the duke was to recognize it. What if he entered the very same flower? They would toss me out of the society on my ear.”

This was the last thing Emma wanted. “Of course it wouldn’t do to pass the duke’s orchid off as your own. I meant for you to use it with another one of your plants to make a new plant.”

“Cross-fertilize it to make a hybrid?” Lavinia’s eyes lit up. “That would be just the thing. I have an excellent
Altensteinia nubigena
. No, not excellent like the duke’s is excellent, but the colors are vibrant and the stem fine and erect. Yes, it would go very nicely with this orchid, assuming the cross-fertilization worked. Oh, wouldn’t that be marvelous. I could call the new hybrid the Stolen Trent or something like that.”

“Wonderful. I look forward to seeing it at the exhibition.”

Lavinia laughed. “My dear, how silly you are. You can’t grow a new orchid in six weeks. It might be ready for showing next year but even that’s doubtful. It usually takes two or three years to get a show-quality flower.”

“Oh,” said Miss Harlow. The thought of waiting two or three years to get results seemed intolerable to her. “Well, in the meantime, what do you think of this gown?” She held up a high-waisted cerulean blue silk dress.

Lavinia barely glanced at it. “Very becoming, I’m sure. But I can’t spare much time. I must plant this before the bulb dries out. You’re the best of good sisters to give me such a thoughtful present.” She kissed her sister on the cheek before flying out of the room and leaving Emma to her unsatisfying wardrobe.

Emma craned her neck but couldn’t see above the awful crush at Lord Bennington’s ball.

“Really, Emma, do cease twitching in that ghastly manner,” Sarah Harlow said sternly. “You are making me terribly nervous.”

With effort, Emma stopped her fidgeting and glanced at her sister-in-law. Her brother’s wife was a tall, slim woman with excellent posture and a refined manner. She never twitched or squirmed or chafed, and she could always be relied upon for useful, sensible advice. She and Emma were opposites in many respects, but they rubbed together very well indeed. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll try to behave.”

“I don’t know what your problem is today. You’re never a pattern card of correct behavior, but you usually have enough sense not to stand on your tippy-toes and teeter about. You look like an oak tree about to fall over.”

“I am sorry, dear. It’s just that I am very excited to be here.”

Sarah snorted. It was an unladylike sound and one not often heard emanating from her elegant person. “You’re never excited to be anywhere this crowded.”

“Pooh,” she dismissed, trying to stretch her neck in a covert way that would not reveal her true intentions. Alas, all she spied were the jeweled curls of the lady in front of her. “I often enjoy social outings of this stripe.”

“You can’t hoodwink me, my dear. You loathe packed drawing rooms and overstuffed balls. If you enjoyed social outings, then your poor mama would not despair of marrying you off.”

Emma momentarily abandoned her ineffectual search and looked her sister-in-law in the eye. “Now you are telling fibs, Sarah. You know very well Mama would despair of me whatever I should do. As long as I’m unmarried and ostensibly still her responsibility, she will continue to despair,” she said without the heat of resentment. “You’ll note that I say
ostensibly
, since she dumped me and Vinnie on you and my brother without a second thought. I’m not complaining, of course. I’d much rather stay with you than with my mother anyway.”

Sarah knew Emma’s assessment was correct—Margaret Harlow’s maternal instinct was sadly lacking—but she didn’t want to admit that to Emma. She would rather that the girl had some illusions left. “Surely
dump
isn’t quite the right word.”

Emma laughed, said no more on the subject and strained her neck again. If only she were just a little bit taller…

“Really, my dear, tell me what has you in this tizzy,” Sarah ordered.

“I’m going to dance the waltz for the first time,” answered Emma, a becoming blush instantly staining her peach cheeks.

Sarah witnessed the flood of color and marveled at its cause. “Rubbish, you know very well that Roger has danced the waltz with both you and Lavinia. You make a handsome pair with your blond heads so close together.”

Not caring to explain yet again the difference between dancing the waltz with a relation and every other man in the world, she simply said, “Well, it will be like the first time.”

Sarah stared at her with a familiar quizzical look. “You’re a strange child.”

At three and twenty, Emma was certainly no longer a child, but she did not take offense at this appellation. She’d been called a strange child ever since she had put her hair up.

The orchestra began a second waltz, and Emma began to fear that the duke’s cousin was not going to show after all. She really wasn’t surprised, of course. Town life offered many delights and distractions to the unencumbered male, especially those just arrived from the wilds of Yorkshire, and a tedious ball with warm lemonade could not compare. Perhaps she should seek out the duchess and strike up a conversation. Surely the duchess would know if he was coming or not. Now, if she could just see over this blasted crowd…