Page 18 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“Was he at fault, perhaps?” she asked. “He wasn’t very gentlemanly toward me.”

“He would never have hurt Belinda. He was truly smitten. She’s very beautiful, you know. Would you like me to unfasten your ruff? You’ll be more comfortable, I’m sure. Turn around.”

She turned around obediently, barely aware of the touch of Charles’s fingers as her mind raced. It had become clear to her that Tidworth was a proud man, and such treatment must have severely dented his pride. Even if it was extremely good news for all the matchmaking mamas.

Charles’s hands were now in her hair, removing the pins that secured her headdress. It was a relief to be rid of it.

“Did he tell you the particulars?” she asked. “Or is it just hearsay?”

“You have delightful hair, Miss Hibbert—long and silky. I could stroke you like a cat.”

“I pray you will not, Mr. Charles,” she said, in her most imperious voice. Why was he toying with her? She must be on her guard, after what she’d heard from behind that curtain.

He laughed softly and ceased his stroking, but his eyes held hers. She treated him to her best Governess Look.

With a long-suffering sigh, he said, “Oh, very well, if all you want to do is talk about Tidworth. The love rival was a Mr. Cornwallis, a rich nabob from India. Hmm. India seems a good place to make fortunes. I wonder if I should consider it? Anyway, it seems James got wind the fellow was coming back and worried he might ask for the chit’s hand, so he decided to steal a march on him, just in case.”

She nodded. “Very sensible.”

“He’s still convinced that if he’d got there first, she’d have accepted him. But he was held up on the road, and Cornwallis beat him to it, seducing Miss Carslake with a hideously gaudy and expensive ring. James hasn’t been his proper self since.”

Emma’s heart thudded uncomfortably. The scenario sounded all too familiar. It took a moment before she felt brave enough to ask, “What was the cause of the delay on the road?”

“A fall from a horse, I believe. Some well-meaning passersby stopped him from riding on, threatened him with a weapon.” He snorted. “What kind of good Samaritan would do that? Poor James, it was most unfortunate. Perhaps I should seduce the beauteous Belinda myself, and teach that Cornwallis fellow a lesson.”

Emma couldn’t find the heart to respond. Guilt flooded through her entire being. She had, quite inadvertently, ruined Viscount Tidworth’s hopes of happiness. No wonder he’d been so angry with her since he’d met her again!

Charles frowned at her. “Come now, Miss Hibbert, I declare I’m quite jealous. All this brooding over my friend, and not a thought for me? Come, kiss me—I’ve been waiting for the opportunity all evening.”

Before she could gather her scattered wits about her, his hand was tangled in her hair and his mouth ranged hungrily over her own. Horrified, she put her hands on his chest to push him away.

But he was not to be deterred. He merely gathered her more closely in his arms, stifling her cries of protest with ever more ardent lips, until she took the only recourse she could think of—she kicked Philippa.

It was almost comical the speed with which Charles withdrew from her when he heard his sister’s mewl of complaint. Fortunately, Miss Philippa was too befuddled with sleep to notice anything amiss. Sitting upright against the squabs, she inquired, “Are we there yet?”

Emma sat back in her seat, tilting a defiant chin at Charles. He’d caught her by surprise this time.

It was not going to happen again.

Chapter Twelve

Emma had been up half the night with Willie and the children’s nurse, Jane, feeding him electuaries with honey to ease his coughing and calming him when he struggled to draw in breath. He was fretful this morning, hunched grumpily over his calculations while Mary beside him muttered over her French.

Maybe the Keanes should take Willie to Brighton, as had been suggested by the doctor the previous day, in hopes of the sea air speeding his recovery. Emma was too weary to dwell on the other delights of the place—if it helped Willie, that was all that mattered.

She became aware that the faint scratching of Mary’s pencil had ceased. Looking up, she inquired, “Do you have a problem, Mary?”

“Oh no, Miss Hibbert—it’s just that you look ill. Shall I fetch you a glass of water?”

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful. Fetch some for your brother, too, but don’t take all day about it—those French exercises must be done before teatime.”

The girl scrambled down from her seat and skipped out of the room, returning ten minutes later with two cups of water and something else beneath her elbow.

“Thank you,” Emma said, taking her glass. “What do you have there, child?”

“It’s a letter, Miss Hibbert, addressed to you. Did I do wrong to bring it?”

A letter! Suddenly the sun shone brighter, and the water coasting down Emma’s throat tasted sweet. Who could it be from? Her old friend, Clara Tinniswood, recently become the Duchess of Ulvercombe? Her brother George? Or her parents from Tresham? Lessons forgotten, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.