Her obvious relief annoyed him, but he said nothing. “There’s lemonade on the children’s table.”
“I’d rather not haunt the children, thank you very much. This face can be a bit daunting. Is there anything that looks less like a child’s drink?”
Sweet Charity sprang into action. “I’ll have Richmond bring you something immediately. It’s a warm day for March.”
“Could he bring me Mrs. Cadbury as well?” he said dryly.
“If you look hard enough you’ll doubtless find her, unless she’s trying to avoid you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why should she?”
Melisande shrugged. “No reason I can think of. Go rescue your brother from the vicar, would you? Benedick despises him, but he’s forced to be polite.”
“Certainly, my dear. I have no great fondness for the clergy myself. But if you see your friend you must promise to hold onto her for me.” Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Melisande flatly.
Brandon gave her his most perfect smile, perfect for the unmarked side of his face, that was. “Someday you’ll have to tell me all about your little friend,” he murmured. “In the meantime, I suppose I owe my brother my support.”
“You owe him a great deal more than that. And leave Emma alone. She doesn’t need your kind of trouble.”
“You offend me! What kind of trouble am I?”
She reached up and whispered in his ear. “Catnip.”
He stared at her, nonplussed, but his sister-in-law whirled away. He glanced across the room. Benedick was trapped by the vicar and in between was a bevy of brightly clad young misses, many of whom were sneaking glances at him, both horrified and fascinated. They failed to interest him.
He would give the other side of his face to be back in Scotland, he thought, keeping his gaze impassive, or any place where people didn’t stare at him and whisper.
Benedick managed to detach himself from the vicar and he was moving among the guests, the perfect host. He needed no rescuing, more’s the pity. Sooner or later Brandon was going to have to abase himself, beg forgiveness for the copious and horrifying sins of the past, but for now he had better things to do.
He had to find the young woman who’d watched him so gravely. The woman with the bowed head and the gray eyes, the woman who reminded him of something, someone. He intended to find out what.
Chapter 3
The reception was even more crowded than she’d imagined, Emma thought, hiding her dismay as she slipped in the side door of the rooms. She knew very few of these people, and most of them would have nothing to do with her, which was just as well. She had no patience for the indolent upper classes. She only wished the Gaggle had been there, the hard-working women who’d serviced these very men and now simply wanted a better life. Melisande had invited them, of course. Her friend had never favored social conventions over generosity of spirit, but the Gaggle was more sensible. They’d sat quietly in the back of the chapel, they’d left quickly, and most of the guests hadn’t even realized they were there. None of them would allow Melisande to commit the social breach of inviting them into her home, and never would.
She could have done the same, Emma thought wearily, if she hadn’t been Alexandra’s godmother. She moved silently through the crowds, eyes alert, a polite smile on her face. Many of the guests were as accepting as their hosts, but there were a number of them who had to be invited despite Melisande’s protests, and the last thing Emma wanted to do was run afoul of them, particularly the vicar.
Emma despised him, and she made it a practice to do everything she could to avoid him. They’d been introduced once, and he’d ignored her ever since, much to her relief, but she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that he watched her, presumably dreaming about placing the wanton woman in the stocks, if they even still had such things.
Well, she had been a wanton woman, she reminded herself. She had sold her favors for money, not that she’d ever seen much of it, and such things were not to be overlooked by a man of God, apparently. She was tempted to brush by him, whisper “Mary Magdalene” in his ear, but that would have been a very bad idea. As far as she knew Mr. Trowbridge had no sense of humor and was best avoided all together.
She was instantly aware the moment Brandon Rohan entered the room, watching him as he bent over Melisande and the baby. She watched as emotions played over Melisande’s face – wariness, disapproval, and then laughter, and the unmarked side of his face lit with his own smile. She’d forgotten the power of that smile, and it struck her like a blow. She needed to leave.
She had almost made the stairs when she heard the baby’s fretful cry. She hesitated for just a moment, and when she resolutely turned again she came face to face with the vicar, his hand clamping painfully around her arm.
“Excuse me, Mr. Trowbridge,” she said politely, trying to free herself. It only needed this! “I was just on my way to help Lady Melisande. . .”
“I think that tiny baby would do well away from your wicked influence,” the man said, moving in on her, somehow managing to herd her toward the French doors that led to the terrace. He was very strong for such a thin, dried-up old man, possibly even stronger than she was, and for Melisande’s sake she wasn’t about to make a scene.
“I beg your pardon,” she said in the frosty voice that had cowed many a young surgeon. The vicar didn’t cow so easily.
“And well you might,” he said, moving her ahead of them, out the French door that still stood ajar, even though the pleasant spring breeze had sharpened. As he pushed her across the wide terrace toward the steps that led to the gardens, she stumbled slightly, unused to walking backwards. “Alexandra Rohan is a good Christian baby. She doesn’t need a handmaiden of the devil nearby.”
“Handmaiden of the devil?” Emma echoed. She wanted to laugh at the melodramatic phrase, but she sensed this was no laughing matter. “Don’t be absurd, sir. I’m no danger to anyone.”
He was holding her too close to him, and he smelled of sweat and dust, like dirty clothes left in a cupboard. She wrinkled her nose, wondering if she should call for help, but that would be ridiculous. A country vicar wasn’t a threat. Chances were he simply wanted to chastise her for the errors of her ways. She could survive being prayed over—it wouldn’t be the first time.