That evening Emma entered the library where the family and a few close friends had already assembled before dinner. Even though the group was small, the noise from the collective conversations hinted at the comfort and love shared by her family.
She started toward the group that included Daphne and Pembrooke. When Daphne shifted, she revealed … Somerton. Emma stopped as if she’d stepped in knee-deep mud. What in the devil was he doing here? Dread threatened to chase away her good spirits.
Her reverie broke when his arresting eyes, accompanied by a slight indention in a square chin, focused on her. Somerton immediately separated from the others and came her way. In a silent prayer, she begged he’d not introduce the mythical pirate queen’s diary or Portsmouth as a topic of conversation. If anyone overheard a peep, all would be lost.
“Lady Emma, I wondered when you’d join us.” In his elegant but subtle manner, he took her hand and bowed.
“Thank you for the flowers and the painting. I’ve enjoyed them immensely.” Remarkably, it was easier than she imagined feigning a nonchalant casualness.
He rewarded her with a wink and a sly smile that intimated he wasn’t through with Portsmouth. The scoundrel thought to unsettle her with such an intimate gesture. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
If she kept repeating that thought, tonight would be bearable.
“You accept my apology?” His eyes glowed with a touch of humor and something else, regret maybe.
“We shall see how you behave as the evening progresses.” She playfully tapped him on the arm with her closed fan. “You were a horrid rogue last night. How do I know you’re sincere in your claim to be remorseful?”
As they spoke, the rest of the dinner party drifted past to the door. Soon everyone, including the servants, had vacated the library. It was the perfect opportunity to set the mood for the evening. She would chase him away before he brought up Portsmouth again. With a step, she closed the distance between them. His maddening scent wrapped itself around her as if to force her to succumb to his allure.
Years ago, she’d acquired a famous eighteenth-century courtesan’s memoire that described the best way to shake off a clingy and demanding paramour. The author advised stealing a kiss and then suggesting marriage. Within hours, the potential beau would part company.
Besides the woman’s erotic adventures—an education in and of itself—her instructions on how to get rid of a man were scintillating. If Somerton fought against her charms, she’d double her efforts—anything to make him lose interest and stay out of her business.
“Shall I claim the kiss we discussed last night?” Her heart pounded with her forwardness, but she forced herself not to flee.
He stiffened and seemed incapable of speech. Finally, he relaxed and leaned close. “The door is wide open. Have you taken leave of your senses?” The underlying sensuality of his whisper floated between them.
“On the contrary, I’m using all of them.” With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and waited. Waited for his mouth to touch hers. Waited for the softness of his lips to caress hers.
Waited … for nothing.
With an exhale, her brief surge of triumph turned into confusion and emptiness. It wasn’t a surprise he didn’t want the kiss, but it hurt nonetheless. She hadn’t kissed another since their first kiss. She sighed at the sudden sadness and pushed her disappointment aside, though her heart protested. His departure was her goal—not his kiss. He must have taken heed and silently bolted from the room.
When she opened her eyes, he had shifted closer. Startled, she took a step back, and he smiled as if he were the cat that ate the last canary in the cage. If a feather fell from his lips, she wouldn’t be at all surprised.
A fiery heat marched up from her neck to conquer every inch of her face.
“You little minx. You want to play?” He lightly brushed the knuckle of his forefinger down her inflamed cheek, the touch soft and seductive. His sinfully dark whisper caressed her with a promise of something forbidden. “It’ll be a pleasure for both of us when I claim your kiss. But, sweetheart, I say when and where. Not you. This isn’t a game you will win.”
Without a look back, he walked from the room.
Stunned by his words, she snapped her mouth shut. It wasn’t a game. It was a declaration to stay away.
She made her way to the dining room—unaccompanied. Somerton’s revelation about the kiss left her unbalanced and truthfully bewildered. The best way to prove he hadn’t set her world spinning was to act as if nothing had happened. The only way to do that was to concentrate on her surroundings. She’d take the comfort she always found in Langham Hall’s informal dining room and settle her runaway nerves. She loved to dine here with her family. It served as their lodestone. All celebrations, gatherings, and remembrances occurred in this small room. Her family drew strength from these events. Moreover, unbeknownst to the others, tomorrow morning would mark another milestone—her trip to Portsmouth and the hope that the singularity of women would be recognized throughout England.
She joined the others around the table. Somerton sidled up next to her. Without a glance, he held her chair as he answered her father’s questions. With little movement to draw attention, he slid into his chair and caught her gaze. She was in danger of drowning in the ocean blue of his eyes. Her heart rattled and tumbled in her chest as if in a free fall. He shifted closer—surely closer than propriety allowed. She struggled with the urge to change places, with someone as far from him as possible. Even the next room might be too close.
What a bloody blunder. She wanted to slip under the table and flee. It should have been simple to convince him to cease showing up at her home and everywhere else. Trapped, she sat beside him without any plausible means of escape.
Somehow, she made it through the seven courses without completely ignoring the family. By the time the footmen presented the dessert, she’d found her bearings. A fabulous assortment of sliced fruits, cheeses, and exotic nuts decorated the table. The pièce de résistance was a decadent orange torte soaked in brandy.
With the first bite, she closed her eyes and savored the fusion of flavors that melted in her mouth. Her older brother Will, garnered her attention when he cleared his throat. The gleam of deviltry in his eyes meant his topic of conversation would not be to her liking. She didn’t move an inch. She half-expected it to be a lecture on Portsmouth, but the first shot fired was a surprise attack.
“I’m curious about the consensus of the room. Does anyone believe women will ever have the right to vote? If so, does anyone believe they’ll understand the issues?” Her brother discreetly waggled his eyebrows at her.
Her father’s gaze shot to Will. The previous conversation had been light with little political comment, a perfect start to a casual evening. Her brother leaned back in his chair. If she wasn’t mistaken, little red demon horns had popped out of his head, a definite improvement to his looks.
She swept her gaze the length of the table to gauge the other’s reactions. The majority gave their full attention to their desserts. Only her father, Pembrooke, and Daphne appeared interested. If it had just been the immediate family, the conversation would have started at once with all taking sides until everyone exhausted their arguments. Her father had a fondness for throwing out controversial topics at family dinners and leading a raucous debate. But with Somerton and Daphne present, he played the perfect host.
Emma glanced at her mother who, with the slightest shake of her head, warned her not to engage Will. She cleared her throat, another sign to let Will hang in the wind.
With a deep breath, Emma tried her best to control her tongue. In all honesty, Will’s taunts caused her blood to boil, which wouldn’t take much tonight since her whole body felt primed to explode from the earlier debacle with Somerton.
“Emma? Cat got your tongue?” Will prodded.
Someone needed to issue a challenge and put her pretentious buffoon of a brother in his place.
But not her. Not tonight. She kept her focus on her plate.
“You prove my point.” Will’s words hung in the air like a putrid smell.
Enough was enough. How could her parents expect her not to challenge him? If the rest of the family wouldn’t take umbrage at Will’s histrionics, she would.
“You’ve managed to insult over half the people at this table.” She broke the lull in conversation and threw her serviette to the table like a gauntlet. “To answer your question, it’s long past due. Surely, the most intelligent people would welcome it. Women deserve the right to have their voices heard on all issues that affect the country, their compatriots, and their families. Only when each and every person accepts a woman’s right to education, the inherent right to make her own decisions, and an equal place in society will true freedom to think and act prevail for all.”
The delighted glee on her brother’s face reminded her of a jack-o-lantern.
“Emma, please.” He shifted his attention to Daphne and Somerton. “Our family, I’m afraid, is at fault. We’ve encouraged her to the point she gives her opinion on all subjects whether she has the experience or capacity to address such complicated matters or not.”
“Lord William.” Her father’s voice had dropped to a low baritone, a clear warning he’d reached his limit for her brother’s pranks.
A flash of heat blistered her cheeks, fueled by the fact that more and more eyes came to rest upon her. They wouldn’t have long to wait for her response. She planned to string him up like a haunch of venison.
With the slightest twist in her chair, her gaze pierced Will’s. “You should have paid more attention at Oxford. Proof of the intelligence and acumen of women is rife throughout the centuries. Boudicca, Cartimandua, Queen Elizabeth, and even Mary Wollstonecraft are just a few examples. They all cherished freedom and, in their own way, brought it to the men and women of England. Of course, a woman’s privilege is still much less than a man’s in our current society and should be changed for the greater good of all.”
Emma waited, hoping for someone, anyone, to join the discussion. The only sounds around the table consisted of forks tinkling against the plates as her family scrambled to ensure their mouths were full.
“Emma, darling, you’re correct. But perhaps we should leave this discussion for another time.” Her mother’s voice was soft, but her heated gaze indicated she wanted to throttle Will.
“Allow me one more point.” She didn’t wait for her mother’s reply, as her time to answer was short. Her father was bound to change the topic of conversation.
Somerton shifted until one leg rested against hers. The heat from his body caused another flush to wash across her cheeks. She chanced a glance in his direction only to discover his lips pressed together in a grimace. Surely, he didn’t judge her or discount her beliefs. Damn William and him, too. She didn’t have to answer to either of them. Ever.
“Mary Wollstonecraft was maligned for her beliefs. The others had the right to voice their ideas and make decisions because of their royal blood. Every one of these women deserves our praise for their bravery in their speech and actions.” Her gaze settled on Will. “Someday a woman will serve as prime minister.”
“Would you send women to war, too? If they have the right to vote, then shouldn’t they have the duty to defend the country?” Will asked. He popped a slice of apple in his mouth and chewed. The effort did little to hide his smugness.
“Of course, women have always gone to war in defense of their countries. Queen Elizabeth’s brilliance as a soldier and leader during the Spanish Armada’s invasion is one of England’s proudest moments. Consider all the women who’ve followed the drums in support of the troops.”
After her impassioned speech, the sound of a single person clapping rang through the dining room, followed by a masculine chuckle. Will’s laughter grew until he was practically bent in half from his guffaws. Her father cracked a smile. Even Pembrooke found the comments amusing, and he never laughed at her.
Anger hotter than a fire in a smithy’s forge shot through her. “Imagine how different England would be if there was no right of primogeniture. Firstborn males might have to work for a living if their birth order falls after the firstborn female.”
Every one turned to her with a wide-eyed gaze as if a parliament of owls had taken up residence in the dining room.
“Under the right circumstances, Claire would be the Duchess of Langham.” She’d see this through to the end, no matter the repercussions. “Her daughter, Lady Margaret who was born five minutes before Pembroke’s heir, would bear the courtesy title Marchioness of McCalpin.”
No one said a word. Silence hung heavy in the air. Finally, the longcase clock chimed the quarter hour, breaking the eerie quiet.
“Lady Emma and Lord William, need I remind you we are entertaining guests?” Her father had practically growled the words.
“Your Grace, I find this most enlightening.” Daphne trained her gaze on Will. “Lady Emma, correct me if I’m wrong. Under your scenario, if my brother was still the Marquess of Pembrooke, wouldn’t Lady Margaret also bear, by courtesy, the Pembrooke title, Countess of Truesdale?”
“Indeed.” A sudden sting burned Emma’s eyes, and she blinked to clear the offensive intrusion. All she could manage was a nod. Daphne’s loyalty was worth far more than the Crown Jewels.
“Emmy, I was teasing.” Will’s voice hinted at contriteness. “But what you suggest is beyond ridiculous—”
“Oh, this is rich coming from the debauched genius who placed a one-hundred-pound wager that Mr. Clayton’s pet leopard would change its spots overnight when it rained.” Those words would cost her, but it was money well spent. “If you believed that dubious hoax, is it so difficult to accept that women deserve freedom and autonomy in life?”
“The wager was whether his spots would fade in winter.” Her brother leaned back in his chair and regarded her. Nervous laughter echoed throughout the room. “Watch your step, little sister. With your chosen course of spinsterhood, you may in the future beg me to let you live in my home. How would you describe that freedom?”
She swallowed and pressed her eyes shut. As if an inferno had landed on her lap, heat blazed from her chest to her face. William had eviscerated her with the sharp truth of his words.
Under the table, something warm grasped her right palm. Fingers entwined with hers before delivering a gentle squeeze. She settled for a moment. What was Somerton doing? Surely, he wasn’t trying to comfort her in front of her family?
“Lady Emma makes an excellent point.” The laughter died when Somerton spoke. “Unrest is sweeping into our country and its territories. The Ludd riots are just an example. We only have to study France and America to see the results if we ignore it. We’d all be better served if we took others’ ideas seriously and welcomed an open debate.”
Her father rubbed the bridge of his nose.
The duchess stood to lead the women out of the dining room for tea. The men would stay to enjoy a glass of port and finish their discussions.
The bitter taste of humiliation squeezed her throat. This everyday ritual made her point exactly. Women left the table while men dissected into minute-detail politics, the nation’s economy, war, and anything else of importance. All under the guise that such a ritual was sacred.
Irritation over her circumstances singed her hard-fought control. Why couldn’t they stay and join in the discussions? Women’s perceptions and observations provided a completely different lens through which the men could better understand the issues.
The harsh truth?
She lied to herself. She was furious over more than some silly ritual. No one gave a fig about a woman’s role in the world, or her right to safety in her own home. Her own family thought what happened to Lena was a travesty best swept under the table for others to handle.
Without realizing, she’d squeezed Somerton’s hand so tightly that hers throbbed. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
Somerton traced the edge of her thumb with his in answer and then slid his hand from hers. With a dignified air, she hid the restiveness that bucked like a wild horse inside her and rose from the table.
Pitts, the Langham family butler, stood nearby and gave her two apples from the side buffet table on her way out. “In case you’re hungry later, my lady. They arrived this afternoon from Falmont.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
With a resigned breath, she grabbed her shawl for a walk to her bench in Langham Park. It was the perfect place for the night air to cool her temper.
With perfect timing, Mr. Goodwin had sent a note earlier that afternoon. Everything was arranged for her arrival tomorrow at the Ruby Crown. It was fortuitous the distance was only a day’s journey if the weather held.
For her own sanity, she’d might just move to Portsmouth.