sneaking suspicion setting in as she studied her friend’s narrowed eyes. “Jane, have you set your cap at the Duke of Manning?”
“Oh, la, no!” Jane cried. The brief glint of calculation faded as she giggled. She straightened her feathered bonnet on her auburn curls and sat back against the carriage cushions. “I’m not such a fool as that. I’m too harum-scarum to ever be duchess material. That’s your department, Em.”
“Mine?” Emily said, shocked. “Of course not. I would make a wretched duchess.”
“Nonsense. You seem born to royalty, with your looks and your quiet grace. And since there is no eligible prince at present, a duke would be the next best thing. Especially one as handsome as Manning.” Jane leaned closer and whispered, “Don’t his blue eyes just make you want to melt?”
Well—they did, actually. Whenever he looked at Emily she longed to sink down through the floor, robbed of any powers of speech she might once have possessed. But she would never admit that, not even to Jane. Not even to herself.
“He is quite fine-looking,” she said carefully.
“Fine-looking?” Jane scoffed. “He is a veritable Greek god. My parents would be in alt if I could catch him, of course, but it would never happen. I shall have to settle for some country baronet, I suppose, like William Jameson. He seems on the verge of making an offer. What about you?”
Emily laughed. “I’m not in the least bit interested in Sir William!”
“Certainly not, who would be? That nose! But there must be someone you like?” “No, there’s no one.” “I cannot believe that.”
“Believe it, my dear Jane. I have met no one this Season I could be really fond of. Perhaps I shall have to find a country squire, too. Maybe a nice curate?”
She spoke in jest, but really a curate would be just right. An earnest, sincere young man who would read to her by the fire in the evenings. Who would ask for her help with his sermons, and praise her charity work in the neighbourhood and never grab her suddenly as Mr Lofton had. It would be perfect—if he had a roguish smile like the duke …
Emily gave her head a hard shake. “That is what I need.”
“A curate? Your parents would never allow it. You are the beautiful daughter of an earl!”
The shy daughter of an impoverished earl. “We’ll see what happens.”
The carriage turned through the gates of Hyde Park, joining the flow of vehicles and horses parading for the fashionable hour. “Don’t worry, Em, the Season is not done yet. We have time to find someone better than the Sir Williams of the world,” Jane said. She reached into her reticule and drew out a small square of vellum. “Maybe here?”
“What is that, Jane? Some sort of love letter?”
Jane giggled. “No, silly! Tickets to a masked ball at Vauxhall. My sister, Mrs Barnes, procured them for me, and she has agreed to chaperon us there. She’s terribly easy to distract, though—she won’t get in the way of our fun.”
“Vauxhall?” Despite herself, Emily was terribly intrigued. She had heard of the infamous masked balls held in the pleasure gardens, of romantic assignations in dark walkways and glorious illuminations that transformed the night. She had laughed at some of the wilder tales, sure they could not be true.
But—what if they were true? What if she went and saw them for herself?
She glanced down at the tickets. A concert by Signora Rastrelli, they read in scrolling script. Fireworks and illuminations grander than anything yet seen in London!
Music, fireworks. It did sound wondrous. But … “Jane, I’m not sure we should.”
“We’ll be wearing masks ! No one will even know we’re there.”
“My parents would never allow it.”
“Then just tell them you’re staying with me at my sister’s house that night. Tell them—oh, I don’t know! That her relation, a curate, has come to visit and has promised to read us some fine sermons.”
Emily laughed, torn between her duty and the promise of a little fun. Surely an evening of music could not be harmful? She didn’t plan to go off along the Dark Walk, after all.
Something deep inside of her, some tiny, terrible imp of mischief that seldom dared show itself, pushed at her. Go on, it whispered, soft and alluring. Be a little daring. What harm could it do? You have been working so hard.
But it could do a great deal of harm, she feared. Yet still the temptation was there.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think—”
“Good afternoon, ladies!” someone called, interrupting her words. “Very pleasant weather we’re having, are we not?”
Emily looked up to see Mr George Rayburn approaching on his horse. He had been the only suitor to really appear this Season, dancing with her at her first ball and being attentive since then. He sent flowers, fetched her lemonade at parties, things of that nature—if that could really be called a suitor. He had not made an offer, and her parents would have refused him anyway. His fortune was respectable enough, from all reports, but he had no title.
Now, though, at the end of the Season, if he were to come forward, they might be more amenable. If Emily liked him, she could probably persuade them Mr Ray-burn was a reasonable match.
He drew in his horse next to their carriage and tipped his hat, smiling down at them. She should like him, Emily thought as she smiled back at him. He was terribly handsome, with waving, glossy dark hair and hazel eyes, a strong jaw and straight nose. He was tall and lean, athletic, much admired. He read poetry, had travelled widely, had correct opinions and impeccable manners.
And he did seem to like her. He wasn’t put off by her shyness or her lack of dancing skills. Why could she not really like him? Perhaps it was that way he had of looking at her.
But maybe she was wrong. Everyone else seemed charmed by him, even Jane. Her friend held out her hand to Mr Rayburn with a happy trill of laughter.
“Mr Rayburn! We have not seen you out and about this week,” Jane said.
“I fear I had to attend some business on my estate that could not wait,” he answered. He seemed to speak to Jane, but his gaze lingered on Emily. “I am sure I could not have been much missed in all the flurry of the end of the Season.”
“Oh, but I vow you were!” Jane said. “There were not enough gentlemen to dance with at Lady Orman’s, were there, Emily?”
Emily smiled, remembering how she herself had not danced at all, no matter how many men there were. “No, I suppose there weren’t. No gentlemen who were good dancers, anyway.”
Mr Rayburn arched his brow. “You think me a good dancer, Lady Emily?”
“You managed to avoid getting your foot stomped on when we danced, Mr Rayburn, and you prevented me from tripping more than once. To me, that makes you an expert.”
“I am glad I impressed you with something,
