To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,22
companion unpaid, out of loyalty. She might have had a better place quite easily, but she wouldn’t hear of leaving.
Emilia patted Alice’s hand and gave her a small smile.
'Lady Charlotte’s ball is only a week away,' she reminded Alice. 'The gown will be ready in time. I’ve just had a note from the seamstress.'
Marriage would mean being parted from Alice after all this time. Emilia didn’t relish the thought.
'A ball among the quality is as fine an opportunity as you are likely to have, especially with the close of the season so near,' Alice said, and Emilia was a bit taken aback. It was unusual for Alice to allude so directly to the mercenary need for Emilia to find a husband. They both were very much aware of the reality of the situation, but it was vulgar to state it aloud so blatantly.
'Yes,' Emilia managed. 'Perhaps I shall catch the attention of a duke.'
Alice’s eyes narrowed as she looked out of the landau, which remained closed—she was facing forward today, and Emilia back. 'Or an earl,' Alice muttered.
Emilia turned and peered out, spotting Maximilian Emery at the gate to the Portman Square Garden. He was waiting for them.
How handsome he looked, with his light-brown hair, tamed only because of his hat, and his well-cut, dark blue coat and polished copper-toned Hessians.
Her traitorous heart ignored all previous attempts at reason and leapt at the sight of him, then swelled uncomfortably in her breast. Throwing herself ungracefully back against the seat, she closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath.
'Oh, Emilia,' Alice murmured, a sad note in her voice.
Emilia’s eyes fluttered open and she met her friend’s gaze with a bright smile.
'No need to fret,' she said. 'Really, Alice. There’s no need to fret at all.'
Alice pressed her lips together and gave her a nod.
Then the carriage came to a halt and the earl was opening the door.
Chapter 8
Miss Whitmore held a white and sea-blue taffeta parasol over her shoulder which matched her white bonnet and white and sea-blue muslin walking dress. The colours complimented her near-black eyes and hair. Her beauty had more in common with the Portuguese ladies he had encountered on the continent than the English roses one met in the soirees of London and in the English countryside. He wondered about her ancestry. The Whitmores were a fine old family, but he knew nothing of her mother’s line.
As if any of that matters, Maximilian, he chided himself.
Miss Bromley, Miss Whitmore’s companion, took Jollyboy’s lead from Roberts and let the dog pull her ahead of them, with the lieutenant trotting to keep pace. As he watched his
Whitmore, just as if they were courting. The realization made his skin feel warm, which was not altogether welcome, particularly since the afternoon was sunny and the temperature unusually high for late spring.
'How is your father’s health?' he asked her.
Miss Whitmore’s smile tightened slightly as she gave him a nod of acknowledgement. 'My father had a fall not long ago,' she said. 'But he is recovering well.'
Max was flustered. 'I had no idea.'
The smile widened slightly, but did not reach her eyes. 'Of course not, sir, how could you have? There’s no need to trouble yourself.'
'What happened? What caused him to fall?'
Miss Whitmore’s eyes darted away. This was a subject she did not wish to speak on, that much was clear to Max. 'Papa has been unwell for some time,' she owned. 'You may perhaps hear about it, if you encounter any mutual acquaintances. He has been housebound for several years. Cardiac insufficiency.'
Max’s spirits dropped at the news. His father had been very fond of Mr. Whitmore, for they had attended Eton together, once upon a time. To learn that Mr. Whitmore might soon pass away, was to be reminded, somehow, of his own father’s death.
'You have a family physician?' Max asked, unthinking. As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to call them back. Of course they had a physician. Of course they must already be engaged in every attempt to bolster the man’s health. How gauche of Max to imply otherwise.
'A surgeon and an apothecary,' Miss Whitmore said.
Well. Not a physician. Surgeons and apothecaries were all good and well, but did they really offer the same level of care?
'Doctor Sinclair, our surgeon, recommends a sanatorium in Germany or Italy,' she said, her eyes unfocused. Her fingers, Max noticed, worried the ivory handle of the parasol. Her father’s health must be quite poor.