Page 61 of Vanquishing the Viscount

As they came together, he smiled briefly but didn’t take her arm, just fell into step beside her so they could stroll among the glossy rhododendrons.

“I apologize for my skullduggery in bringing you out here,” he said evenly, “but I needed to talk to you alone as soon as possible.”

Her heart flipped over. Was he going to propose again? No, his manner was too cold. She was still at risk of losing him.

She steeled herself against whatever hurt he might knowingly—or otherwise—be about to inflict.

He said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of including your brother in our party. He has become essential to my cousin’s happiness, it seems. In fact, I would call him her personal physician, though unpaid. I only hope she won’t distract him too much from his studies.”

Why were they talking about George? Emma wanted to talk about them.

“Oh well. I’m certain he’ll return to Bristol after this house party full of vigor and ready to resume his career,” she managed.

“I did have an ulterior motive.”

Good. She’d hoped that might be the case.

He went on, “I thought you might appreciate his moral support when a certain event takes place. He’s a good listener and advisor, I collect.”

A certain event?

What event?

Her steps slowed, and she looked up at him in dread. Was he going to announce his engagement to…someone else?

No, that was a happy event. He hadn’t said “happy.” She was on tenterhooks, waiting for him to explain.

He halted and turned to face her.

She blinked up at him, waiting for the hammer blow to fall.

“I’ve seen to it that Charles Keane received an invitation,” he said. “No, don’t look so horrified. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but I wanted things settled between all of us. I cannot know if you and I are to be friends or enemies until you’ve spoken to Charles. You said you wished to, so I’ve made it possible. If it were left to him you might not see him for weeks. As you know, he’s very dilatory in his dealings with women. But I must say no more on that subject—I don’t wish to influence you against him, as he is still my friend. Arrange things between yourselves. I’ll interfere no further.”

Panic seized her. Charles? Here? He could ruin everything!

If he hadn’t done so already.

She wanted to cry, “Please, interfere! Rescue me from his vile machinations!” But James’s expression was so forbidding she dared not speak.

Repressing the sob that welled up in her chest, she said, “Well, you seem to have everything organized to your satisfaction. Whether Charles will dance to your tune is yet to be seen.”

“Oh, he’ll come. That’s a certainty. When I said invited I meant blackmailed. He’ll be here in time for dinner tonight. Now, I think we’ve spent enough time alone. I wouldn’t want to give the gossips any further grist for their mill. Adieu.”

With that, he tipped his hat to her and strode off up the rhododendron walk and into the gardens.

She stared after him, devastated. The man she yearned for so much it hurt, the man with whom she’d fallen achingly, unbearably in love, had walked away from her and left the field open to his rival.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Emma chose her finest gown to wear for dinner that night. It was muslin, shot through with copper thread that glittered when she moved. This was accompanied by a satin wrap in rich burgundy that complemented the highlights in her chestnut hair, and a necklace of garnets borrowed from Countess Rossbury.

The dining room was easily as impressive as that at Birney House, flashing with cut glass chandeliers and candelabra, gilded pier glasses, and flickering tea lights to illuminate the table itself. Their host, Sir Richard Colt Hoare, was shy but a total gentleman, and the children of his extended family who came to say their goodnights before the company sat down were utterly charming.

Emma sat between George and an elderly former general who regaled her with tales of the Spanish Campaigns. James was placed next to Colt Hoare himself, and they must have had a great deal of common ground, for they remained deep in conversation throughout the meal.

She looked about for Charles, praying he’d ignored James’s summons. Alas, whatever James had said to him had done the trick—Charles was at the table, bracketed by Jemima and Lady Rossbury. He was leaning close to the latter, evidently doing his best to amuse her with some scandalous on-dit, but even his charm and wit brought no more than the wisp of a smile to her face.

When he caught Emma watching, he winked at her and broke into a feral grin that promised all kinds of delicious wickedness when they were next alone.