Page 74 of To Marry and to Meddle
And all at once, she wasn’t. She wasn’t certain of anything. She felt as if the ground were shifting beneath her feet, and she had nothing to hold on to. It had all been so terrible and wonderful to realize that she loved her husband, this man she had married for entirely practical reasons, but to now have even the faintest hope that he loved her too, when it was nothing more than that—a hope, something that might not prove to be true after all….
Well, it was too much to bear.
She had to know the truth.
She needed to ask him.
But unfortunately, she was in the middle of a drawing room full of people, including her parents—and while she might, in a moment of uncharacteristic recklessness, be willing to tell her husband she loved him before their dearest friends, she was entirely unwilling to share that moment with her parents. Her parents who, had they been left to their own devices, would still be allowing Mr. Cartham to squire her about town.
“No,” she said to Violet, in response to her question. “I’m not certain at all.”
But she intended to find out. Perhaps she could ask Julian for a word—all at once, the thought of sitting through the evening ahead with this conversation looming over her was too much to bear—and with this thought in mind, she took a couple of hesitant steps in his direction—
Before tripping over something small, furry, and currently yowling.
“Cecil!” she exclaimed, scooping the kitten up into her arms. “How did you get in here?” When last she had seen him, he’d been curled up on a bed of cushions before the fireplace in her bedroom, and yet herehe was. “Did I step on you?” she asked, cradling him close to her chest; at this gesture, he stopped his wailing and commenced purring instead.
“That cat is positively diabolical,” Diana said in admiring tones, watching Emily drop a kiss onto Cecil’s nose. “Emily, I’m surprised you haven’t yet crafted him a litter to carry him about the house, merely to ensure he doesn’t get trodden upon.”
“I don’t think he would sit still in one,” Emily said entirely seriously, taking comfort in the feeling of Cecil’s purrs vibrating against her chest. “Besides—”
“Emily.”
She glanced up, startled, to see her mother crossing the room toward her. Belatedly, Emily realized that her mother was not aware of Cecil’s existence, he having been left to doze in the carriage when she and Julian had called to inform her parents of their marriage.
“What are you doing with that creature?” her mother asked, coming to a halt beside her and staring down at Cecil’s face with some distaste; behind her, Emily could see Julian’s parents craning their necks to try to see what had caught Lady Rowanbridge’s attention, their expressions puzzled.
“He’s mine,” Emily said, cradling Cecil protectively; he plainly did not like being squeezed, and let out a plaintivemeowof protest. Emily loosened her grip on him as her mother continued to stare at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses. “I found him in an inn Julian and I stayed at on our return journey to London,” she explained. “No one could account for him, so Julian and I decided to adopt him.”
This was, admittedly, a bit of a stretch, given Julian’s lack of enthusiasm, but just then, the man in question appeared at her side, his clear blue gaze inquiring.
“Is everything all right?” he asked politely.
“Mama was just—” Emily began, before being immediately interrupted.
“I was trying to determine how on earth Emily came to be in possession of this flea-ridden creature,” her mother said, positively bristling with indignation. Her mother despised cats, and so Emily had never been allowed one before; on one memorable occasion, Violet had helped her hide a litter of kittens from her mother for an entire month before she’d been caught out and forced to give the kittens in question away to various friends.
“I don’t believe Cecil has fleas, my lady,” Julian said, still with utter politeness. “In fact, considering his humble origins, I find it remarkable what fine fettle he is in—Emily has taken good care of him.”
For a moment, Emily was rendered speechless; Violet appeared to be trying not to laugh, while Diana wore an expression of supremely knowing smugness. Julian had called himCecil, notCecil Lucifer Beelzebub.He haddefendedhim. And, much as she might hold out hope for an eventual change of heart toward Cecil on Julian’s part, Emily did not for one second believe that Julian’s defense of Cecil had been done out of any great affection for their feline companion.
He had done it for her.
Emily reflected that she must be growing older, if the starry-eyed fantasies of her girlhood involving handsome knights on horseback had instead come to this: standing speechless with a lump in her throat because her husband had spoken kindly of a small kitten whose appearance could only—with extreme charity—be described as unkempt.
“Lord Julian, you might wish to take a firmer hand with Emily,” her mother said, her gaze fixed on Emily. Emily once would have been cowed by that stern look in her mother’s eye—Mama was never oneto raise her voice, but Emily was always so eager to please that the merest suggestion of her mother’s displeasure had always been sufficient to send her scrambling to mend whatever she’d done to incur that disapproval.
But no longer.
“Mama, it’s a kitten—there’s no need to cause a scene,” Emily said, straightening; Cecil, with his usual impeccable sense of timing, chose that moment to launch himself out of her arms in some sort of demented bid for freedom. Julian, without missing a beat, caught Cecil with one hand, tucking him under his arm with a sure grip.
“Iam not the one parading an oversize rat around in polite company,” her mother said, looking positively horrified, and Emily all at once found she had had quite enough. She had spent most of her life trying to please her mother—had sacrificed Season after Season to doing as her parents wished, doing her part to preserve the family reputation—butthis, an insult to Cecil, was simply too much.
“He is not a rat, Mama,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting her mother’s gaze dead-on. “He is a kitten, and he ismykitten, and we are inmyhome, so I will do as I see fit, and I will not have you lecturing me about it.”
“I was hardly—”
“You were,” Emily said calmly, marveling at the clear, steady tone of her voice. For so long, in the rare moments she allowed herself to imagine speaking her mind to her mother, she’d worried that she’d become emotional, that her voice would waver, that she wouldn’t find the right words. And yet, now that the time had come, she had no difficulty in saying her piece.
