Page 30 of Chasing the Earl
When he and Montieth had returned to the estate with the annoyingly talkative Miss Cradditch, the celebration for South and Honora had already begun.
Henry ignored the lavish buffet set out and instead accepted a glass of champagne. Which he detested, but it seemed the polite thing to do.
He spotted Emmie on the other side of the ballroom, clearly avoiding him for some reason.
Troublesome harpy.
He had no earthly idea what to do with her. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There were a great many things he wished to do to her. All of them wicked and filthy. He’d taken great pleasure in whispering each one to her last night. Henry had the inclination to storm across the room, toss her over his shoulder, and just abscond with her. She’d complain the entire time. Probably insult him. But at least she’d be talking to him, which Henry shamefully admitted was much more important to him than bedding her.
Maybe he shouldn’t have taken Emmie’s hand at the church, but she’d been so forlorn sitting all alone. Henry had been struck with the urge to comfort her, and honestly, there wasn’t anyone else he wished to sit beside. None of the other women smelled of honeysuckle. Or snarled back at him with scathing rebukes.
She was frightened of what was growing between them, something Henry was sure didn’t sit well with her. Well, he was unsettled too. They’d just have to muck their way through it.
Laughter echoed through the cavernous room. He thought it might be Lady Bainbridge, who with the array of feathers decorating her hair, reminded Henry unpleasantly of his mother. The late Countess of Huntly had been fond of wearing a turban with an enormous ostrich feather erupting from the top. Whenever she’d chastised Henry, which had been often, the feather would dip in accusation, pointing directly at him.
He turned away from the feathered Lady Bainbridge and stared into his champagne. He considered, not for the first time, what sort of person he’d become. His parents had played a large part in forming his character, though he didn’t hold them completely at fault. They had simply never cared for him in the least, ignoring or avoiding him as much as possible. Sometimes Henry wondered if he was merely the product of an unfortunate affair. Maybe the former Countess of Huntly had tupped a groom and he was the result. Or he was the unwanted child of one of his father’s mistresses, whom his mother had been forced to raise. Or rather, instruct a nanny to raise.
Henry had been left to run wild, a weed growing in the perfect garden of the Earl of Huntly, stepped on and overshadowed by the magnificence of his brother, Douglas. The earl and countess had hardly cared what Henry did or said. After a time, neither had he. There had never been any threats to cut off his allowance or disown him. Henry’s parents had barely remembered his existence. It was only when Douglas had died, having been thrown from the horse Henry had gifted him, that they had thought of him. His parents had declared him unfit for the earldom. Boorish. Rude. Careless with his person and others. Behavior unbefitting a gentleman. They’d both died still despising their youngest son.
And Henry had become the worst earl in London.
He finished the champagne and swiped another glass from a passing servant’s tray.
Montieth, after having to defend himself in yet another brawl Henry had instigated, had declared he’d had enough. South had barely been speaking to Henry before he’d left for South America, and their relationship hadn’t improved all that much since. Yet here Henry was, given another chance to be a decent human being. Today Montieth and he had spoken as the friends they’d once been. South had invited Henry here.
There were times, like tonight, when he wished he could speak to Douglas just one more time. Ask his brother how Henry could be more like him.
Not completely, of course. Douglas had been a bit of a stick in the mud.
Henry swallowed down the rest of the liquid in his glass. Peering across the room, he took in Miss Stitch. Her gown was the color of oversteeped tea, a dull amber that helped her blend in with the wood paneling in the hall.
Good Lord.Who wore such drab colors to a wedding?
Determined spinsters, his mind answered. One he should probably leave well enough alone. She might not want him disrupting the tedium of what had to be a boring existence.
Oh, it’s far too late for that, Emmie.He couldn’t stay away from her now even if he wanted to.
He stalked cautiously along the edge of the ballroom, nearly toppling over a podium that held a bit of rock encased in a glass dome. It was covered with writing and appeared to be quite old. Examining the stone for a moment, he wondered why in the world South found it important.
“What do you suppose this is?” He nodded toward the rock. “Looks like bird scratches on stone. Do you think it’s a secret message of some sort?”
“I’ve no idea, my lord. An item Lord Southwell brought back from Egypt.” Emmie’s brow wrinkled. “I think.”
The exposed line of her throat—not fully revealed, mind, because she insisted on wearing gowns with ridiculously high necklines—tempted Henry. He’d pressed an openmouthed kiss to that very same spot the previous evening, tasting the warmth of her skin. The vibrant deep chestnut of her hair had once more been tortured into some elaborate braid and tightly coiled around her head, as if in allowing him to bed her, Emmie had immediately felt the need for restraint.
“I would ask you to dance, but I fear I’m not good at it.”
She had lovely eyes. The dark sheen trailed down Henry with her usual disdain, which had been absent when he had held her hand at the church.
“Then I am grateful you won’t ask.”
“The feathers sprouting from Lady Bainbridge’s hair are terrifying.” Henry nodded across the room. “Looks like an enraged peacock, doesn’t she?” He’d had assignations with scores of women and never once had been ignored or dismissed afterward. If he couldn’t still feel Emmie writhing beneath him, he would assume he’d dreamed last night, based purely on her disinterest in him.
A tiny half smile crossed her lips. “Lady Bainbridge’s headdress is atrocious, though hardly enough to frighten anyone, my lord.”
“I detest your hair in braids.” No, she’d enjoyed herself last night. The scratches along his back were proof.
“I don’t style my hair in such a way to please you.” She cast a sideways glance at him. “You should turn your attention to the state of your own clothing. Did a blind man cut your hair?”
