Page 29 of Chasing the Earl
She felt immeasurably better.
Finally, the vicar pronounced Southwell and Honora man and wife, the church erupted in cheers as the pair made their way down the aisle. Southwell walked without his cane, carefully and with much determination, Honora matching his steps and holding tightly to his arm.
Huntly squeezed Emmagene’s fingers one last time before letting go so he could clap and whistle. He was smiling, something she suspected he did with even less frequency than herself. The light through the windows bathed his rough features, even managing to make his poorly tied cravat shine. Huntly was an attractive man, not ravishingly handsome like Southwell but good-looking enough to cause Emmagene’s heart to beat furiously.
The wedding guests all followed behind the newlyweds as they left the church for the walk back to Longwood. Southwell and Honora were assisted into a carriage festooned with ribbons and flowers. All that was missing was the birds singing in their honor and an appearance from the queen to grace the event. It was grand and beautiful. Awe-inspiring. Like something right out of that stupid romance novel Honora had sent Emmagene to read.
A smile froze on her face as a wave of self-awareness filled her. At what an unpleasant person she’d become.
As the carriage drove off and the guests began to drift back to Longwood, she glanced to her left, expecting Huntly to be nearby. His hand had been on her waist as they’d exited the church, and she suddenly, very much, wanted to talk to him.
His large form, easily found, stood beneath an old oak tree near the church. Montieth and he were engaged in conversation, the first she’d seen them have since the house party had started. Miss Cradditch, lavender skirts floating in the breeze, stood between them.
Normally, Emmagene wouldn’t give Miss Cradditch a second thought except that the girl was looking at Huntly with a great deal of interest and not Montieth, whose side the little twit hadn’t left since this bloody party had begun.
As Emmagene watched, Miss Cradditch giggled, swatting Huntly in a playful manner. Her fingers hovered in the air before finally taking hold of his arm.
Huntly made no effort to hide his displeasure from Miss Cradditch. There was a grimace on his lips, and he looked at her as if her hand was a wasp who’d settled on his arm. But he also didn’t shake her fingers away.
The sight of all that giggling and pressing of fingers made Emmagene’s stomach pitch. She wanted to fault the breakfast this morning. The eggs had been overdone. The bacon much too greasy for her taste.
She jerked her head from the sight. What business was it of hers if Miss Cradditch formed an attachment to Huntly? Nothing would come of it. Except Huntly, much like his friend Montieth, required a wife at some point. Titles needed heirs, didn’t they? And why did it matter to her?
Damn it.
This was what came of opening oneself up. Feelings of rejection. Loss. Annoyance that Miss Cradditch, though a complete idiot, was beautiful. Suitable.
Things Emmagene was not.
She dropped her bouquet, uncaring when she crushed what was left of the daisies beneath her feet, and began the walk back to Longwood. Alone. Tonight there would be dancing. Musicians had been brought from London. A splendid feast would be laid out, buffet-style. Champagne and toasts to the happy couple.
More than enough entertainment to distract her from Huntly.
Chapter Thirteen
Ishould neverhave let go of her hand.
Henry circled South’s exhibit hall that tonight was doubling as a ballroom. Lady Trent had lobbied for South to put his collection in storage until the wedding was over, but he had declined. His guests danced around his gruesome death masks from Africa and the small idols of fertility gods from South America. The musicians were hidden behind hand-painted screens from China.
Where is she?
He’d only stopped to speak to Montieth for a moment after leaving the church. Long enough to know that Miss Cradditch would not become the next Countess of Montieth. The girl was so incredibly annoying, worse than the insects plaguing them during dinner on the terrace. Placing a hand on his arm. Chattering away about how lovely the ceremony was all while glancing between him and Montieth and batting her eyes.
He’d nearly swatted at her.
The only thing Henry despised more than mundane, pointless conversation was flirtation for the purpose of making another jealous, which had been Miss Cradditch’s sole goal. Her efforts were completely wasted on Montieth. His friend had no interest in Miss Cradditch despite the high hopes of Lady Bainbridge and Lady Trent. Even if Montieth did find Miss Cradditch appealing enough to wed, he had never shown an ounce of possessiveness over any woman in the entire time Henry had known him. Montieth’s disinterest in the girl was so plain Henry wondered how Miss Cradditch couldn’t have seen it.
When the girl had finally released Henry from her grasp after realizing Montieth wouldn’t give a fig about her even if she went about lifting her skirts for the footmen, Henry had turned to find Emmie. He’d wanted to walk with her back to the house. Maybe take her hand again. But perhaps she’d sensed he was considering dragging her into a patch of primroses and tupping her because she was nowhere to be found.
Slippery little spinster.
His need of Miss Emmagene Stitch, cantankerous, unwed lady, hadn’t abated in the least since last night. Something that troubled Henry greatly. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love, per se, but he was cautious of any feelings derived for a woman after spending the night between her thighs.
A bloody spectacular event.
It was only that Emmie was sounexpected. He hadn’t lied when he’d admitted such to her the previous evening. He’d reached for her when he’d awoken this morning, instantly wishing her slender form were next to his. They could argue over what to have for breakfast. Or make love. Henry was honestly at peace with either.
And now she’d gone and run away from him.
