Philip fell in line reluctantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he muttered before performing a less than graceful bow over her hand. “How d’you do?”
Sarah’s lips twitched. “I’m well, sir, and yourself?”
It was clear from the look in the boy’s eyes that there
were many answers to that question, but he reined himself in in time and said only, “Enjoying my first season, ma’am.”
“Are you?” asked Emma, some imp urging her on. “Then you’re very lucky, Mr. Keswick. I found my first season to be dreadful dull.”
“Did you? This is my very first ball, and I have to say that it isn’t at all what I was expecting.” He tugged again at his cravat. “To be completely
honest, I have found doing the society rounds very constr—” He seemed in the verge of giving spleen to a great many complaints, but the duke interceded.
“Isn’t that a waltz I hear?” he asked, interrupting his charge.
“Is it?” Philip cocked an ear. He didn’t know the difference between the tempo of a waltz and a minuet, but he did know that the former was very scandalous and not at all the
thing in the wilds of Yorkshire. He turned to Emma. “Miss Harlow, would you do me the honor of this dance?”
Despite the urgency with which she longed to speak with Trent, she didn’t have the heart to turn down this enthusiastic young cub. “I would be—”
But before she could get the sentence out, the duke interrupted. “Sorry, old fellow, but I’ve already claimed Miss Harlow for the next waltz.”
A devilish light suddenly glinted in his eye. “Perhaps Mrs. Harlow could be convinced.”
Mrs. Harlow was amused but did not accept Philip’s offer, which was fast in coming following his cousin’s words. “I would much rather stand here and drink my ratafia. Perhaps you could tell me about your London adventures while they dance.”
Laughing, Emma let the duke lead her out to the dance floor. “How
dare you mistake me for that ill-mannered urchin!” he said, sounding very much like an offended duke.
Emma waved him off. “Really, what was I supposed to think? You were reading in the conservatory.”
They were on the dance floor now, and the duke took her into his arms. Emma felt a shiver run up her spine at his touch and savored the feeling. No one had ever made her shiver before. She closed
her eyes, threw herself into the experience and let him twirl her around. It was breathtaking.
“What does my reading in the conservatory have to do with it?” he asked.
“What doesn’t it?” she asked teasingly, opening her eyes and watching the room spin around her. The feelings were so exhilarating, it was a wonder she could talk, let alone form coherent sentences. She should have danced the
waltz with a handsome duke years ago. “Everyone knows that a town-bred gentleman would not be caught dead reading in his own conservatory. His paramour’s, certainly, while she peels a fig for his pleasure, but not his own conservatory. That’s what the clubs are for, your grace. I’m not so green that I don’t know that.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Miss Harlow. Perhaps you’re more green than
you realize. After all, I was reading in my own conservatory. Practice has disproved your theory.”
“It’s a good theory and I’m determined to stick to it, no matter how unconventionally—and, dare I say, inconveniently—you behave. Surely you’re the only gentleman in all of London reading in his conservatory. Indeed, I would go so far as to say you are the only gentleman in all of London reading
at all. It’s little wonder I didn’t mistake you for the butler, your grace.”
The Duke of Trent laughed and didn’t notice the curious stares of people around him. “I think you greatly overestimate the illiteracy of my fellow peers.”
“I think you greatly underestimate it,” she said, “but that’s neither here nor there.” She paused for a moment and contemplated how to word her next thought. “Your
grace, I have a project with which I would greatly welcome your help.”
“If it is stealing dahlias from Lord Beverly’s garden, I must warn you, I do not climb fences.”
“Calm yourself. The dahlia appeals little to my sister, and if it did, I would be quite capable of fetching it on my own. I don’t need an accomplice.”
The duke cocked his head to one side and looked at her consideringly. “Are
you sure, Miss Harlow? I distinctly recall your being about to snap the stem of the
Rhyncholaelia digbyana
. Certainly you would have succeeded in stealing the bud but in vain: By the time you arrived home, it would’ve been dead.”
Emma knew this was true, but she still resented the implication that she wasn’t a competent flower thief. Nevertheless, she wanted the duke’s assistance and saw no
point in contradicting his statement. It would lead only to an argument and quite possibly alienation. She had a better plan. “I saw you dancing with my sister. Did you have a chance to talk with her?”
“After I realized she was not you, we had a lively discussion of potting soil.”
“Potting soil, your grace?”
“Yes, your sister prefers a liberal amount of volcanic pumice to aerate and loosen
the soil whilst I favor forest humus.”
Emma marveled at this. Her sister danced with the Duke of Trent and spent the entire time discussing compost. And the family thought she was the odd one! Really, at least Emma knew better than to discuss dirt with a duke. “And how did you find her?”
“Very charming, once I realized she was not you. She thanked me for the orchid. I understand she’s going
to cross it with her
Altensteinia nubigena
and nourishes hopes of showing it in next year’s Horticultural Society’s exhibition. I wished her well.”
“She’s a very good woman, my sister, and a prodigiously talented horticulturalist.”
The duke nodded. “I do not doubt it.”
“And she deserves happiness, no?”
“My dear Miss Harlow, I should imagine we all deserve happiness.”
Miss Harlow could
think of a few exceptions. Sir Windbag, for one, and perhaps her mother. “Then you will help?” she asked.
“I cannot say. Help with what?”
“Help my sister attain happiness.”
“I’m afraid that is beyond my talents. Indeed, I suspect that it’s even beyond yours, my dear. You cannot help people find happiness. They must do it on their own.”
Emma thought the duke sounded very wise—and very off
the mark. “Perhaps that is often so, but I assure you this is not one of those cases. All we have to do is end her engagement with Sir Windbourne, and she will be very happy indeed.”
Trent was silent for a moment. “Is she being coerced? Does she not want this marriage? I’m surprised. Sir Windbourne has always seemed like a proper fellow, too well bred, certainly, to terrorize over females.”
“I’ve found no evidence of terrorism—yet,” she admitted. “But he’s a villain, nonetheless.”
“But your sister welcomes the union?”
“Yes, she does. But she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s getting married only because she fears that if she doesn’t marry Windbourne she’ll never marry anyone. She wants children, of course, but this is not the way to go about it.”
“On the contrary, Miss Harlow,
that’s exactly the way to go about it.”
“No, I meant—” Emma broke off. It wasn’t that the conversation was becoming very inappropriate, it was just that the waltz would surely end soon and she had yet to state her proposal. “I need your help in splitting them up,” she said, returning to the point. “Do I have it, your grace?”
“I cannot in all good conscience agree to help you, although what
I could do, I have no idea. I don’t know Windbourne, and he would hardly listen to me if I brought up the topic of his engagement.”
“Pooh, that would be a waste of time indeed.”
“Well, then, Miss Harlow, I suggest we talk about the weather.”
Emma sighed. “Really, your grace, I begin to suspect that you are going to be a sad disappointment to me.”
The duke was unaccustomed to being a disappointment
to anyone, let alone a sad one to an improper miss who didn’t know how to behave. Ordinarily he’d give the speaker a good setdown, but because Miss Harlow sounded so disappointed, he found himself intrigued despite himself. “How so?”
“Well, I was counting on you to seduce my sister away from Windbourne,” she said, laying all her cards on the table.
The proposal was so preposterous, so utterly
ridiculous, so completely beyond the bounds of anything respectable, Trent missed a step and stumbled. His misstep threw off Emma’s balance, and for a split second she thought she was going to fall. Luckily, the duke recovered his composure in time to intercede. His arms tightened around her and held her steady as they twirled gracefully around the room once again.
Emma looked at the duke, waiting
for him to say something. He did not. “Your grace,” she began, “it’s not as bad as you think. You see, Lavinia is a—”
“Miss Harlow,” said Trent in a surprisingly cold voice, “I suggest we do not discuss this further until the dance is over.”
Emma failed to see why they couldn’t discuss it right then and there on the dance floor—the congeniality of the topic would not alter depending on the
location—but she held her tongue. If the duke needed a moment to think about her proposal, then she would obligingly give him all the time he needed—as long as he decided by the end of the evening. If he didn’t see the wisdom of her scheme, she would have to proposition someone else. She didn’t know very many libertines, but they couldn’t be so hard to come by. Otherwise, Sarah and her brother wouldn’t
worry so much about her virtue.
They finished the dance in silence, and when Emma moved to return to Sarah’s side, the duke interceded with a strong grip on her arm. He had other things on his mind and led her to a quiet corner where they could discuss them. There was nothing improper about their situation—they were in plain sight of everyone—but the corner afforded them some privacy.
In a
low voice, the duke demanded, “Explain yourself!”
Usually Emma didn’t take well to orders, but she understood the duke’s anger, although it was scarcely a fair reaction to her suggestion, and explained herself. “Your grace, it’s very simple. You are to use your considerable charms to woo Lavinia away from Sir Windbourne. It shouldn’t be very difficult. He’s hardly a fair match for you.”
“And
then what, Miss Harlow?”
Miss Harlow blinked at him. “Excuse me, your grace?”
“What happens after I’ve wooed your sister away from Windbourne?”
“That depends on you. Go on with your regular life, I suppose. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“But what about your sister?”
“Lavinia? She’ll go on with her life, too.”
“So I’m to win her affections and then callously drop her
after I succeed?”
“Well, yes.”
The duke’s face suddenly turned a faint red color. “Miss Harlow,” he said in his most intimidating sneer that he used on only the worst toadies, “I do not toy with the affections of innocent misses.”
Emma was far from intimidated. “Of course you do. You’re a libertine.”
Inconceivably, the duke laughed. He tossed his head back, closed his eyes and laughed
for several minutes. Indeed, it was only after a single tear ran down his cheek that he managed to get ahold of himself. He took a deep breath as his color returned to normal and said, “Miss Harlow, you are an original.”
Her originality was beside the point. “So you’ll do it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But my sister’s happiness depends on you.”
“Your sister’s happiness depends on your sister.
What you’re suggesting would be abhorrent to any gentleman.”
Emma looked at him crossly. “Oh, what good is a libertine if he won’t toy with your sister’s affections and then ruthlessly drop her!”
“Miss Harlow, I don’t know who provides you with your information, but they’re wrong. I’m not the man you think I am.”
“Bah, you’re the sort of man mamas warn their daughters about.”
This was
news to Trent. “On the contrary, I’m the sort of man mamas point their matchmaking bows at and shoot,” he explained. “I’m the sort who’s the object of countless schemes. I’m a bachelor, not a libertine.”
“But you have many mistresses,” protested Emma. “And the latest
on dit
concerns your tryst with Mrs. Waring.”
“Miss Harlow, I will not discuss this with you.”
“Why? Because I am an innocent
miss? Really, your grace, just because I’m unmarried doesn’t mean I’m unobservant. I know how men behave. They do not try to hide it from us, so much as forbid that we speak about it. My own father is reported to keep a stable of fashionable impures on Wardour Street.”
“I do not like having my behavior bandied about by gossipmongers.”
“Then perhaps you yourself should not bandy about with
widows.”
The duke stared at her for several seconds, the humor completely gone from his demeanor. He seemed to be struggling to rein in his temper. Emma was not concerned. She was well used to anger. For some reason, she aroused it in many a person’s breast. “Miss Harlow,” he said agreeably, changing tactics midbattle, “surely this discussion is unnecessary. Although I don’t know Windbourne
personally, I have never heard a thing said against him. Your dislike of him is unfounded.”