Read Online A Valentine Wedding by Jane Feather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Feather
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tolerance was much more limited, although she had no intention whatsoever of showing herself to London in outmoded gowns. It had taken her no more than a day’s observation to recognize that Alasdair had as usual been quite correct on the unfashionable condition of her wardrobe.
“I think, my dear, that we should pay some calls tomorrow,” Maria said when they were once more back in the barouche; the jonquil gown after some necessary alterations was to be delivered in Mount Street later that evening. “Now that you’ve done some shopping and are ready to face the world—that hairstyle by the by is all the rage—we should call upon Princess Esterhazy and Lady Jersey. Just to make sure about vouchers for Almack’s. Once it’s known that you’re ready to receive callers, we shall be inundated,” she added happily.
Emma didn’t reply. It had been close to a week since Alasdair had left town after their hateful quarrel, and she had had ample time to question the impulse that had fueled her challenge. They’d been living reclusively these last days, but the time for that was now past. And once the doorknocker started banging, and the invitation cards poured in, as they would surely do, she was going to have to makegood her challenge. Niggling doubts she resolutely quashed. She would free herself from Alasdair’s control at the earliest opportunity. If only she hadn’t also issued that impetuous challenge about taking a lover. A husband would be easy, but a lover … ?
However, she’d sworn to do it and she wasn’t going to give Alasdair the chance to gloat. What he could do, she could do. Her mouth took a wry turn as she reflected how competitive they had always been with each other. Or maybe, to be brutally honest, it was she who had always felt the need to compete with Alasdair … and to a lesser extent with Ned. It was presumably a holdover from her early girlhood when she had always been afraid that if she couldn’t keep up with them, they would leave her out of their activities. Maturity, of course, should have lessened the compulsion to compete, but it hadn’t happened.
A flicker of derision, as much self-directed as otherwise, crossed her eyes. Alasdair had hurt her badly, so she had hurt him back. The wounds they had inflicted upon each other three years ago had been too severe to heal over. And they were still hurting each other in a pride-fueled, spiraling competition to inflict the deepest injury.
She had given herself until February 14 to achieve both an offer of marriage and a liaison. If the same man could fill both roles, it would make things easier, but she’d sworn to take as husband the first man who offered for her, and maybe he wouldn’t fit the bill as lover. The possible inconvenience of being wed to a man whose bed you couldn’t imagine occupying was one Emma chose to ignore.
“My love, Horace Poole is bowing to you.” Maria nudged her arm.
Emma glanced up. The gentleman in question wasbeaming and bowing from the side of the street. “Odious man,” Emma murmured as she offered a frosty bow in return. “There hasn’t been an heiress in the last ten years for whom he hasn’t made a beeline.”
“Well, my dear, you know it’s only to be expected. They’ll all be around you like wasps at the jam,” Maria said. “It will be very tiresome, I’m sure. But you mustn’t despair of finding a man who is not influenced by your wealth.” She patted Emma’s knee comfortingly.
That, Emma thought, would be truly wishing for the moon, but she silently amended the conditions of her challenge: she would take the first offer made her by a man who was not a gazetted fortune hunter.
Maria glanced at her companion’s set profile and swallowed a little sigh. Emma had never before had to suffer the discomforts of being courted only for her fortune. She had been but three weeks into her debutante season when she and Alasdair had become engaged, and after their scandalous breakup, she
“I think, my dear, that we should pay some calls tomorrow,” Maria said when they were once more back in the barouche; the jonquil gown after some necessary alterations was to be delivered in Mount Street later that evening. “Now that you’ve done some shopping and are ready to face the world—that hairstyle by the by is all the rage—we should call upon Princess Esterhazy and Lady Jersey. Just to make sure about vouchers for Almack’s. Once it’s known that you’re ready to receive callers, we shall be inundated,” she added happily.
Emma didn’t reply. It had been close to a week since Alasdair had left town after their hateful quarrel, and she had had ample time to question the impulse that had fueled her challenge. They’d been living reclusively these last days, but the time for that was now past. And once the doorknocker started banging, and the invitation cards poured in, as they would surely do, she was going to have to makegood her challenge. Niggling doubts she resolutely quashed. She would free herself from Alasdair’s control at the earliest opportunity. If only she hadn’t also issued that impetuous challenge about taking a lover. A husband would be easy, but a lover … ?
However, she’d sworn to do it and she wasn’t going to give Alasdair the chance to gloat. What he could do, she could do. Her mouth took a wry turn as she reflected how competitive they had always been with each other. Or maybe, to be brutally honest, it was she who had always felt the need to compete with Alasdair … and to a lesser extent with Ned. It was presumably a holdover from her early girlhood when she had always been afraid that if she couldn’t keep up with them, they would leave her out of their activities. Maturity, of course, should have lessened the compulsion to compete, but it hadn’t happened.
A flicker of derision, as much self-directed as otherwise, crossed her eyes. Alasdair had hurt her badly, so she had hurt him back. The wounds they had inflicted upon each other three years ago had been too severe to heal over. And they were still hurting each other in a pride-fueled, spiraling competition to inflict the deepest injury.
She had given herself until February 14 to achieve both an offer of marriage and a liaison. If the same man could fill both roles, it would make things easier, but she’d sworn to take as husband the first man who offered for her, and maybe he wouldn’t fit the bill as lover. The possible inconvenience of being wed to a man whose bed you couldn’t imagine occupying was one Emma chose to ignore.
“My love, Horace Poole is bowing to you.” Maria nudged her arm.
Emma glanced up. The gentleman in question wasbeaming and bowing from the side of the street. “Odious man,” Emma murmured as she offered a frosty bow in return. “There hasn’t been an heiress in the last ten years for whom he hasn’t made a beeline.”
“Well, my dear, you know it’s only to be expected. They’ll all be around you like wasps at the jam,” Maria said. “It will be very tiresome, I’m sure. But you mustn’t despair of finding a man who is not influenced by your wealth.” She patted Emma’s knee comfortingly.
That, Emma thought, would be truly wishing for the moon, but she silently amended the conditions of her challenge: she would take the first offer made her by a man who was not a gazetted fortune hunter.
Maria glanced at her companion’s set profile and swallowed a little sigh. Emma had never before had to suffer the discomforts of being courted only for her fortune. She had been but three weeks into her debutante season when she and Alasdair had become engaged, and after their scandalous breakup, she
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