Page 53 of To Marry and to Meddle
“Why,” he repeated, coming to his feet, “does it matter? You knew when you married me that they were never going to be thrilled that you’d gone behind their backs to do so. Why are you trying to make amends now?”
“Because they’re my parents,” she said, feeling like a bit of an idiot, but unsure of any other way to explain it. “And I’m their only living child. It would be nice if we could all get along.”
“You all ‘got along’ until quite recently,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It involved you doing whatever it was that they asked of you, regardless of the effect it had on you and your life. If that’s their idea of getting along, then I would think you might be perfectly glad to be a bit less cozy with them.”
“Julian,” Emily said, trying not to inject a note of pleading into her voice. “Please.”
He sighed. “I’ll be nice,” he said shortly, “so long astheyare nice to you.”
“Thank you,” Emily said simply, and turned to leave the room, reflecting as she went that that promise was not, perhaps, as reassuring as she might have wished.
It was, Julian thought, something of a miracle that they made it all the way to dessert before things went to hell.
Of course, it hadn’t precisely been an enjoyable evening up to that point—it was impossible to properly enjoy oneself in the company of a man whose sense of humor seemed to be almost entirely nonexistent, and a lady who looked as though she were at risk of bursting into tears at any moment—but Emily, bless her, had put all those years she’d spent on the marriage mart to good use, keeping up a steady stream of conversation that, under different circumstances, Julian would have been inclined to admire. And so they’d rubbed along well enough, with Emily doing much of the heavy lifting, until dessert.
“This has been a very nice dinner, Lord Julian,” the marchioness said a bit stiffly. She’d never been precisely warm toward him, but he really thought it a bit unfair that she’d been more friendly when she’d thought he was a disreputable scoundrel sniffing around her unmarried daughter’s skirts than now, when he had actually married said daughter—and rescued her family from dire financial straits, too. “You must give my compliments to your cook.”
“I will,” Julian said, nodding, running a finger around the rim of hiswineglass, which was still half-full. “I think she’s been pleased to have an excuse to cook proper meals at last, now that I’m wed. I was in the habit of eating many of my meals out, in my bachelor days.”
“I hope Emily has been taking a firm hand, then,” the marchioness said, looking at her daughter, who at the moment was still absorbed in eating her pear tart. Julian enjoyed watching Emily eat, since sometimes, if she didn’t realize he was watching, she would forget herself and consume with such clear joy that it was almost transfixing. He had begun watching her more carefully in general, he realized, in search of these moments. She had been so long in the habit of monitoring her speech, her demeanor, everything about her that was visible to the eye, that it was eminently satisfying to catch a moment when she let down her guard and reacted with unfeigned, undiluted glee to something.
Too late, however, Julian realized that Lady Rowanbridge was watching Emily, too—and she did not appear to appreciate what she saw.
“Emily,” she said, keeping a rather terrifying smile fixed upon her face, “you will not wish to eat so much dessert that you cannot contribute to the conversation. You are the hostess this evening, after all—you must know all that that entails.”
Julian took a breath, trying to keep his annoyance at bay.
“Emily,” he said definitively, “has been keeping our conversation afloat for the whole evening. I think you might allow her a few moments to enjoy the food that she agonized over, the menu that she perfected with the cook.”
Lady Rowanbridge looked at him then.
“You will not understand, Lord Julian, not knowing Emily so well as I do, that occasionally, if one is not watching her carefully, her behavior… well, it slips a bit.”
Julian let out an incredulous laugh that he didn’t even attempt to suppress.
“Emily is the most well-mannered lady I’ve ever met—in fact, I believe she is well-known among thetonfor her proper behavior. It was, after all, your salvation for many years.” He uttered these last words quietly, but they landed with weight in the silence of the room. “I do not think, therefore, that she is in need of any instruction fromyouon how to behave—particularly when it is no longer your place to offer it.”
Across the table, Emily set down her fork, her shoulders slumping slightly, and Julian felt a brief pang of guilt, which was washed away as soon as Emily’s father opened his mouth.
“Now, Belfry, there’s no cause to speak to my wife like that,” Rowanbridge said, barely sparing a glance for the wife in question.
“You are sitting at my table,” Julian said calmly, “eating my food and drinking my wine, and you can afford to go home and do more of the same in your own house thanks to my generosity. I do not, therefore, think it too much to ask that you treat your daughter with at least a modicum of respect whilst you are under my roof.”
“Julian,” Emily said, her tone sharper than he’d ever heard from her. “That’s enough.” She turned a placating gaze upon her parents, looking at each of them in turn. “Papa, Mama, let’s not spoil the evening. Mama, I’ve the sherry you like so much waiting in the drawing room, if you’d like to—”
“That will not be necessary, Emily,” the marchioness said, rising. “I believe I feel a headache coming on, and it is best that we return home. Thank you for your… hospitality,” she added, pausing for just long enough before the final word to make it clear that she didn’t really mean it.
Emily was rising as well, words of protest forming on her lips, butthe marquess and marchioness were already making their way toward the double doors at the end of the dining room, calling for their coats. By the time they were gone—with handshakes and hand kisses and all the other niceties that polite society required, regardless of how impolite an occasion might have been—Julian was beginning to feel rather cheerful at having been rid of undesired guests a couple of hours earlier than expected.
All of his cheer evaporated, however, when Bramble had bowed the Rowanbridges out and a footman had closed the front door and Julian turned back to face his wife, who looked stricken.
“I believe I’ll go to bed” was all she said, however, and she proceeded to turn and make her way up the stairs.
“Emily,” Julian called after her, exasperated, but she did not turn, merely continuing her steady progress up, skirts clutched in one hand. Muttering a curse, Julian took off after her, his long legs—unencumbered by layers of petticoats and skirts—eating up the distance between them, and he passed her before she reached the landing. “Listen,” he began, but Emily brushed past him and set off down the hall, Julian close on her heels.
This was new territory for him, he reflected as he said her name once again, still eliciting no response. He and Emily hadn’t had a proper argument yet—in truth, though he was now embarrassed to admit it, he didn’t think he’d really thought her capable of this. The loud silence. The rigid line of her back. The quick, purposeful footsteps.
She drew to a halt at her bedroom door and Julian darted forward to open it for her; for a moment, he thought she was going to refuse to pass through while he was holding the door, but she seemed to realize how absurd (and self-defeating) that would be, so she enteredthe room, coming to a halt before the fireplace and whirling around to face him, crossing her arms over her chest.
