Page 20 of The Earl's Hired Bride
“Will the earl be joining us?” It was just a casual question. She repeated the thought to herself in hopes of believing it this time.
“No. This is exactly the sort of thing he’s hoping to avoid,” his mother said.
Emily nodded. She was not disappointed, merely nervous.
Perhaps she’d better repeat that one too.
But all went well. The marchioness was kind and welcomed her as if a relation of her sister’s husband was a relation of hers. No one questioned her identity for a moment. She smiled and nodded and took tea and pretended interest as Lady Hartsford and her sister gossiped.
Her day brightened when Mrs. Carmichael and her daughter Mary came to call. Emily invited the girl to sit next to her. They had a delightful time getting to know one another and discussing London’s public parks and gardens.
“You seem so knowledgeable about the city, Miss Latham,” Miss Carmichael remarked. “But didn’t you say you’d only just arrived?”
“I spent time here as a child,” Emily fibbed. Well, technically it wasn’t a lie. She did tell the manufactured tale of her lost wardrobe and described in detail the ball gown that Madame Lalbert and her mother were laboring over—and she invited the girl to come along for her first fitting. She would get the girl into a more flattering wardrobe yet.
The Carmichaels departed, however, and Emily grew bored. An old acquaintance had arrived next and the sisters were busy reminiscing with her. Unnoticed, Emily stood and walked about the room. She stopped at the set of French doors that led to a small terrace. The marquess’ home was one of London’s few freestanding mansions, which meant it had a substantial garden by city standards. Emily gazed out upon the beauty of it and marveled at the luxury.
It took her a few minutes to notice him. A young gentleman, barely more than a boy, sat in the shade. He looked pale and wan. He held a book in his lap, but stared dejectedly out at the garden instead of reading.
Emily glanced back. The women were deep in childhood memories. She slipped out. Approaching, she peered over his shoulder at the book he held.
“The Lady of the Lake,” she said. “I did enjoy that one. Made me long to visit Loch Katrine.”
The boy started. “Who are you?” he barked over his shoulder. Then he turned back. “Never mind. Just go away.”
She noted that one of his arms lay close to his side and the hand and fingers were scarred and twisted.
“Not in the mood for company?” she asked cheerily.
“No.”
“Are you ever?”
“No!” he barked.
“Is it a temporary condition, then?”
His head whipped around. “Iswhata temporary condition?”
“Your bad temper.”
His mouth worked, but it was clear he had no idea how to answer—and every desire to lash out in an even more ill-tempered fashion.
“Don’t waste your time,” she advised. “I’m practically immune to the rudeness of young men. I’ve one about your age at home.”
“Whoareyou?” he bit through gritted teeth.
“Do you really wish to know this time?”
“I really wish to know,” he affirmed. “So that I know who I may correctly call the most annoying girl of my acquaintance.”
“Bravo—that set-down was well done. But I’ve hardly reached annoying yet.” Crouching down beside him she looked pointedly at his arm. “How did it happen?”
“Don’t you know?” He looked surprised.
“How should I? We haven’t even met.”
“Are you not one ofthem?” He nodded toward the house. “One of theton?”
