LITMIR.BIZ

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      After a little cajoling Amelia stepped away from the window.

      The lawn of Field House lay in golden shadows, the last vestige of the late sun still streaking the evening sky. Swarms of midges hung beneath the hollyhocks and the other encroaching foliage as the two women climbed through an open sash window back into the homely comfort of the drawing room.

      Field House was for the most part rather staid and masculine in design, but the drawing room had been decorated by their late mother and showed a more feminine touch. Colourful embroidered cushions nestled between the more recently acquired porcelains and elegant damask-covered chairs. Wildflowers arranged in jugs added bright flashes of colour to even the dimmest corner far from the hearth. It was the only room in the house Emma associated with joy.

      ‘I didn’t see Lyle,’ Amelia commented, as Emma lifted the teapot to give it a hopeful shake. By the feel of it, only the dregs remained. ‘Why wasn’t he with the others?’

      The question carved furrows in Emma’s brow. Rather than answer, she calmly settled the teapot and filled the space in which an answer ought to have been by draining what remained of her cold tea. Truthfully, she didn’t know where Lyle had got to. He had certainly remained at the dinner table with the other gentlemen when she and Amelia left. He ought to still be there now. However, Lyle often wasn’t where he ought to be. As for where he would most likely be found – Emma’s cheeks burned, leaving her distressingly rosy. She immediately took a seat by the fire and thrust the guard out of the way to account for her glow. She’d lost count of the times she’d had to cover for him.

      ‘I expect he was there and you just didn’t see him, Amelia. Or else Father asked him to attend to something. You know he isn’t so sound on his feet any more and Lyle does like to be helpful.’

      More than likely, Lyle had slipped away during the fuss over Darleston’s late arrival and was now below stairs or else secreted in some other cubby-hole engaged in practices it would take the ingenuity of a fence to explain away.

      If her father ever found out – she shook her head sadly – heavens, if anyone discovered her husband’s proclivities, then her entire world would crumble. Divorce was not a pleasant word but, by God, that’s what it would likely come to, if only so that she might protect her dignity and not spoil Amelia’s chances.

      Emma’s terror at the prospect wasn’t new and soon wore off, as did the flames in her cheeks. She’d known precisely how Lyle was when she’d married him. In truth it had been what had endeared him to her most of all. Other women might seek fidelity; Emma had known that Lyle would stray. In fact, she’d counted upon it. It had been her one great bargaining tool.

      ‘Drat and dandelions,’ Amelia cursed, rousing Emma from her thoughts with their favourite childhood blasphemy. ‘I’d so hoped that Lord Darleston had travelled with a companion. I mean, who does not these days? I’m quite put out by it. I don’t want to stay here and turn into one of those simpering old maids. I knew I ought to have insisted on going to London instead of being stuck here in the wilds. I don’t see why I can’t have at least one London season.’

      ‘Patience. I’m sure Father will arrange something. Give him time. You know this gathering is important to him.’

      ‘He’ll be too withered to take me, or I too old to be of interest if I’m forced to wait much longer. I’m nineteen. The Walsh girls have already had two seasons.’

      ‘The Walsh girls have no choice but to take whatever offers they manage to grab. Your situation is a little different.’

      ‘Not so very different,’ Amelia grumbled. She retreated to the rear of the drawing room, where she drew a book from a shelf and faked a deep engagement with it.

      Emma’s gaze strayed to the mantel-clock. From the direction of the dining room there was a scraping of chairs followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. The gentlemen, headed by Mr Hill, squeezed through the parlour door two abreast and availed themselves of various chairs. Seven of them were soon draped over the furniture, chattering loudly. Amelia made a beeline towards Mr Bathhouse. Emma made to follow, only to be intercepted by her father and Lord Darleston.

      Ada came up behind them bearing a second teapot. ‘I thought you might be needing some more, miss, with so large a party.’

      ‘Yes, we were. Thank you, Ada.’

      ‘Could you, dear?’ Mr Hill gestured towards the steaming vessel.

      Perhaps Amelia would be fine for a moment or two. Emma poured for her father and offered a second cup to Lord Darleston. The wretched china trembled abysmally when she held out her hand. Close up, the urge to touch him grew infinitely stronger. The coat … his coat, heavens, if it wasn’t the most marvellously perverse thing she’d ever beheld. Each swirl in the fabric had a raised pile that gave it such texture and shape. Indeed, seeing it up close she realised it was not simple brocade, but formed an interweaving pattern of maenads engaged in rather lewd play. Yet it suited him perfectly, drawing attention to his big strong shoulders and the perfect narrowness of his hips.

      For a moment, she thought it might be only his outfit that engaged her senses. Then his hand shot out and steadied the wobbling cup and he blessed her with a smile that made the very corners of his eyes crinkle. He had grey eyes, flecked with specks of lilac that were like slivers of rain-washed slate. Light flared in the depths of his pupils.

      That one look told her everything she ever needed to know about Lord Darleston. He was handsome and dangerous, and if she had any sense of self-preservation she would avoid him, else those fanciful ideas she’d been entertaining earlier might very well get the better of her. At the same time, she knew she wouldn’t. Still, the sense of loneliness that had grown over the winter had only increased with the coming of lighter nights. She longed for a companion who was more attuned to her needs, someone who was wicked and exciting and who would give her a reason to thrive instead of growing old and drab. Lyle saw that she was cared for and comfortable, but she knew he found it hard to relate to her.

      ‘Emma, my eldest,’ her father introduced her. ‘It’s so good to have you home again, dear. I do wish you and Langley would reconsider my offer. The old place is so cavernous with only Amelia and me in residence. Where is Langley, do you know? I do so want to speak with him before I retire.’

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Father. I thought he was with you. Perhaps he’ll be back in a moment.’

      Mr Hill’s sallow brows wrinkled. Emma’s heartrate doubled. He knows. He knows. Lord Darleston was watching them. Oh, God, please don’t let everything fall apart now.

      Her father sipped his tea. ‘Well, yes, I expect you’re right. But I think I may just slip along right now.’ He turned to Darleston and cuffed him companionably upon the arm. ‘I haven’t the stamina of you young bloods any more. I’ll bid you goodnight, milord. Gentlemen. Emma will ensure that Grafton sees to your wishes. Do forgive my atrocious manners.’

      ‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ll see everyone off.’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course you will. Goodnight, Emma. Mind you don’t go needling, Lord Darleston. She can be quite the prickly philosopher, but you mustn’t take her too much to heart.’

      No, she oughtn’t to be taken at all seriously. Emma enfolded her fists around the fabric of her skirts, whilst she maintained a well-practised smile. Silly old fool didn’t believe her capable of a single eloquent thought. And he really ought to have considered, before inviting them, the fact that his guests would go late to their beds. Now she and Lyle would have to play host and hostess, wherever Lyle happened to be.

      Her father leaned towards her, meaning, she realised, to press a kiss to her cheek, but when Emma stiffened all the way from her toes to her lips, he straightened at once. ‘Well, goodnight, dear.’ He tottered away, yawning into his teacup, and looking strangely frail. Perhaps Amelia had a point about the London season. Mr Hill’s deteriorating health would likely make it impossible before long.

      ‘I’m sorry,’

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