Page 2
Chapter Two
“Emily! Lift your head up for goodness’ sake. You will get stooped shoulders if you slouch like that. Now practice your curtsy again, as if I am the viscount. Hold out your hand for him to kiss, and for the love of all that is holy, smile! At least try to act like you are glad to see him!”
“Yes, Mama,” said Miss Emily Grenfell softly, trying to obey all these instructions at once and almost losing her balance in the process. She was sure that she wasn’t wearing a smile but a grimace. However, Mama seemed happy enough with the result, sniffing and going to the front parlor window.
“Gracious, he is here! Now remember everything I have told you. Sit there,” she waved her daughter to the sofa, “fold your hands in your lap, keep your feet together, back straight, chin up, and smile!”
Two minutes later, the door opened, and their butler announced, “Viscount Bidenden, my lady.”
The Countess of Efford rose and smiled broadly at their guest, a well-turned-out young man of medium height and build, with soft brown hair and green eyes.
“What a lovely surprise, my lord. Do come in. You know my little Emily, of course. But of course, you do,” with a laugh so false it made Emily wince internally. “You danced with her twice last night at Lady Sefton’s ball. Emily!” she prompted, and Emily rose and sank into the required curtsy, proffered her hand, and managed to raise her head, smile, and not wobble this time.
“My lord,” she murmured, her eyes dropping in spite of herself.
The viscount took her hand and kissed it. “Miss Grenfell, I trust you are quite recovered from last night’s frivolities?”
“I am,” she responded, still looking at her slippered feet.
“Please take a seat, Viscount,” said Mama, waving him to the couch beside Emily as she sat again, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. “I shall just see about the tea,” said Mama mendaciously, leaving the room, much to Emily’s anguish.
“Your mama is most accommodating,” murmured Bidenden, managing to secure her hand in his and kiss it again. Emily tried to tug it away, but he kept a firm grip on it, “You must know the reason for my attentions, Miss Grenfell.”
He spoke in a low, earnest tone that gave her goosebumps—and not the good sort. Mama, come back! Before she could respond, he went on quickly. “I am most smitten with your beauty!” He kissed her hand again, then turned it to most improperly press his lips to her exposed wrist.
Emily snorted inwardly. Beauty indeed! I’m as plain as milk! Smitten with my fortune more like! Mama, for goodness’ sake, come back!
“I will speak with your father, Miss Grenfell. You must know what about. I hope to receive a positive response, hm?”
Fortunately for her, Mama reappeared at that juncture, sparing her the necessity of making a reply, and he let go of her hand hastily.
Tea was served, and stilted conversation, largely between the viscount and Mama, ensued. At the end of half an hour, Bidenden stood to take his leave. “When might I find Lord Efford at home, Countess?”
Mama flushed with pleasure and smiled so broadly, all her teeth showed. “Why, the earl is generally home until at least twelve o’clock most mornings, but if you are wishful to speak with him, I can let him know so that he will be at home to you when you call, my lord!”
“Please do so, ma’am,” he said with a neat bow. He turned to take Emily’s hand and kiss it again. “Until we meet again, Miss Grenfell.” The throbbing accents in which this was uttered made Emily cringe and flush with embarrassment. Wholly unable to meet his no doubt ardent gaze, she mumbled something unintelligible, and to her relief, he let go of her hand and left.
She sank down onto the couch with shaking knees. This couldn’t be happening! After two seasons with no offers (despite the temptation of her fortune), she was now facing the inevitability of being thrust into marriage with a man whose only interest in her was the settlements she would bring.
Her mother, unable to contain her transports, pulled her up into an embrace and polkaed her round the room. “My dearest, what a triumph! The heir to the Marquess of Malmsbury! Such a success for you! At last, my dreams are coming true!” Mama dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
“M-mama, I do not wish to m-marry Viscount Bidenden,” said Emily shakily.
“What? Nonsense! Of course you do! He is a handsome young lord, and he clearly adores you. What is wrong with you?” Mama’s voice escalated with each sentence. “This is an irritation of the nerves! A distempered freak! Go to your room. I’ve no patience with you, girl! You are all about in your head!”
Emily stared at her helplessly.
“Go!” said her mother, her face turning red. “And don’t show your face until you are prepared to be sensible! Ridiculous! I never heard of such a thing! He will make you a marchioness, you stupid girl!” She waved at her in a shooing motion. “Go away! I cannot bear to look at you! After everything we have done for you, too! Such lack of gratitude. Go! Go!” Her mother screamed at her, and Emily bolted, shaking from head to toe and chased all the way to her room by the sounds of her mother’s building sobs. Mama was going to have one of her fits of hysteria.
Shutting and locking her bedroom door, Emily sank down on her bed in despair. Her mother would rail at her and hector her until she accepted the viscount, she just knew it. She was trapped. She had thought if she could just hold out for one more year, she would turn twenty-one and be able to access her allowance. It wasn’t her full fortune, for her father still controlled that, and if she married, it would pass straight into her husband’s hands. But there was an annuity from her grandmother that was hers by right, and she would get that once she reached her majority. She wiped tears off her cheeks and sniffed. Perhaps marriage to the viscount wouldn’t be so very bad. He was young at least, and not ill looking. She could have done worse, she supposed. Yet everything inside her rebelled at the notion.
Such a frivolous and fashionable young man would not tolerate her passion for antiquities any more than Mama did. He would force her to go to parties and be a hostess and expect her to be witty and pretty, and she wasn’t any of those things. She was plain and shy and hated company. She was much happier with her books and musty artifacts.
She slumped back on the bed with a sigh and sat up quickly as something jabbed her in the back. It was a flat parcel lying on her bed. Distracted from her misery, she smiled, for she knew what it was. It was her copy of the latest volume of British Antiquities, her favorite journal. Gregory, the butler, who was her partner in crime, must have brought it up for her. He kept all her mail safe for her and made sure Mama couldn’t steal it.
With a squeal of excitement, she tore the wrapping off and feasted her eyes on the precious volume. It took a substantial slice of her pin money every quarter to pay for the subscription, but she didn’t mind. She would pore over the articles, reading them again and again, dreaming of the day when perhaps her name would appear below the title of an article that would be read and esteemed by other scholars—well, her pseudonym. She couldn’t publish under her own name, of course. But she would know it was hers.
She opened the volume and read through the table of contents, savoring each title with delight. There are hours of reading here. If Mama doesn’t wish to see my face, she won’t. I will stay in my room and read to my heart’s content. She banked up the pillows and settled back to devour each delight one by one.
