Emma knew she had behaved like a wanton. What would he think of her?

She turned to flee the room, but Hugo was before her.

“There is nothing to fear. Pray believe me that I would never hurt you. You have no need to run from me.”

Emma turned away. She was afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

“I will go,” Hugo said quietly. He sounded strained. “I had hoped you would come to accept me, but I can understand how difficult it must be for a beautiful young woman like you, forcibly married to such a wreck of a husband. Perhaps, in time—”

Guilt engulfed her. “You are wrong, Hugo,” she said in a low voice. “I am not afraid of you. And you are not—” In a whisper she continued, “But I am afraid of the way you make me feel.”

Marrying the Major
Joanna Maitland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Prologue

1805

Emma Fitzwilliam settled herself high in the branches of her favourite oak, glancing only a little ruefully at yet another tear in her cotton pinafore. She was not usually so clumsy. She would be well scolded for that when she returned to the house, but her punishment would be much worse if they discovered she still climbed trees. Her old governess was still trying vainly to make a lady of her. And Papa—dearest Papa—had lately said one or two things to suggest he was less than totally happy with the way she behaved.

Dearest Papa. For him, if he asked, she would try to become a lady, but it would be terribly difficult—and terribly boring. Ladies had to walk sedately instead of romping around the estate, they were never allowed out without an escort, they certainly could not go swimming in the lake, or fishing, or climbing trees—and they weren’t even supposed to laugh out loud. Emma frowned at that last thought. Gentlemen were allowed to laugh—and frequently did—but ladies were supposed to smile demurely or, at most, give a melodious tinkle to signify amusement. It wasn’t fair. Nor would it be fair to make her spend all her time at ladylike pursuits. Emma could play and sing pretty well, and even set a neat stitch, but she could not imagine doing so all the time, with only slow, boring walks for exercise, accompanied by a stony-faced groom. Ugh.

She wriggled about until she could reach into her pocket for her book and her apple. Then she settled down to read, munching blissfully. This was one of the pleasures of not being a lady—and she would not give it up.

‘Young Lord Hardinge and his friend have called to see Miss Emma, sir,’ intoned the butler gravely from the study doorway, ‘but…no one is quite sure where she is. Shall I—?’

‘Show them both in here, Godfrey,’ said Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, rising from his deep wing-chair with a welcoming smile already on his cheery features. ‘No doubt my daughter will appear soon enough. She seems to have some kind of sixth sense about welcome visitors—and unwelcome ones, too.’ He laughed at his own wit, wondering, none the less, how it was that his mischievous daughter was never to be found except when it suited her. For Richard Hardinge, who was like a big brother to her, she probably would appear. She had been trailing him for years, after all, and Richard had never once rejected her, no matter how demanding she had become. Soon, it would all have to stop. Emma was fast maturing into a young lady—and young ladies did not cavort around the estate with male friends, no matter how trustworthy they might be, nor how indulgent her father. No—soon it would be necessary to find a proper female companion for his only daughter, to give her the polish that a young lady required, the polish that her dear mama would have provided if only she had lived.

Sir Edward sighed slightly at the sad memory, but assumed a polite smile when the door opened again to admit his two guests. The young men were remarkably alike, both tall and dark-haired, with open features and merry eyes. They seemed to have been laughing at some shared joke.

Richard Hardinge bowed politely to his host. ‘I collect we have lost her again, sir,’ he said with an ironic shake of the head. ‘And Hugo was so anxious to make his farewells in due form, too.’ Richard grinned at Hugo, who seemed to be unmoved by his friend’s sly jibe.

‘I suggest you both sit down,’ said Sir Edward placidly, nodding in the direction of the old-fashioned sofa on the opposite side of the huge fireplace. ‘She will appear, sooner or later.’ He turned to Hugo Stratton. ‘But I’m sorry to learn that you are leaving, my boy. I had understood from Lady Hardinge that you were to remain at Harding for a month or so yet.’

‘That was so, sir,’ said Hugo. ‘Lady Hardinge was kind enough to invite me to stay for the summer—until my commission came through. The thing is…well, sir, the fact is that my regiment is ordered to Deal next week—the rumour is that we are preparing for embarkation for north Germany—and unless I join them now, I’ll have to wait for months, besides missing the chance of a crack at Boney.’ His grey eyes were shining with enthusiasm as he spoke. ‘I really do have to go, you see, sir. I’m leaving for home this afternoon.’

Sir Edward nodded sagely. He had seen enough of Hugo Stratton these past few weeks to recognise the makings of a good officer in him, in spite of his youth. ‘I understand your haste, my boy. I was much the same at your age. In the circumstances, it’s good of you to make the time to call on Emma. You must have a host of more important things on your mind.’

Hugo was still young enough to be able to blush. He stammered a little. ‘After all your kind hospitality, sir, it is…the least I could do.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Sir Edward, ‘nothing at all.’ He rose and paced to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains to gaze out on the deserted terrace and the sweeping lawns beyond. ‘Drat the girl,’ he said quietly to himself, ‘where on earth is she?’ He turned back to his guests, smiling apologetically. ‘I can understand that time is pressing for you, so I will not attempt to detain you. Since Emma has not condescended to put in an appearance, she will have to make do with second-hand farewells. I will tell her you called, and why. Perhaps now she’ll learn not to disappear quite so often.’

Hugo and Richard had risen politely with their host. Hugo took a step forward. ‘I still have half an hour, sir. May we not go and look for Miss Emma? She’s bound to be in the garden somewhere—and Richard probably knows where to look. He should, after running tame round your estate for so many years.’ This time, it was Hugo’s turn to grin at his friend’s discomfiture.

Sir Edward smiled indulgently at them. ‘Very well, if you wish. But do not, on any account, allow that little minx’s pranks to delay you beyond your time.’

The two young men were already making their way into the garden. Watching them, Sir Edward gave a weary shake of his head, ‘Heaven help me. Whatever shall I do with such a hoyden?’

Emma was so deeply immersed in the fantastic adventures of the heroine of her novel that it took several minutes before the voices penetrated her concentration. Goodness—they were standing almost directly beneath her. She offered a quick prayer that they would not look up and sat as if frozen.

‘Well, she’s clearly not here,’ said one voice with just a thread of irritation in it.

Emma immediately recognised Richard’s voice—and the annoyance. They had been fast friends almost since she was in leading strings but, of late, he was a little less indulgent than before. Her father said that Richard was now too grown-up to bother with a grubby little hoyden, that once he finished university he would have no time at all for Emma. But Richard wouldn’t do that, would he?

Emma opened her mouth to call down to Richard, but thought better of it. Someone else was with him…

‘When she doesn’t want to be found,’ said the second voice, ‘she seems to disappear into thin air. I’d have expected you to go straight to her hiding-place, Richard. After all the time you’ve spent on this estate, you should know every nook and cranny.’

Emma smiled slightly at the second voice. It was Richard’s friend Hugo Stratton, and he sounded more amused than annoyed. Hugo was not like Richard—except a little in looks, perhaps. Hugo did not treat Emma like a grubby little sister, to be teased and provoked. Hugo treated her almost like a lady.

Almost, she repeated to herself. For Hugo Stratton had a wicked sense of humour. He was quite capable of behaving like a perfect gentleman while secretly laughing at everyone around him. Only the decided glint in his eye betrayed his unholy glee—and Emma had quickly learned to look for that, before anything else.

But now, from her vantage point, all she could make out was the top of his head.

The tree shook suddenly, as if some giant had leaned heavily against it. It was only the wind, but Emma clutched at her book, loose in her lap, to prevent it from falling. She was too late to retrieve the apple core, though, which rolled down through the branches. Mercifully, it stopped, caught on a tiny twig a few feet below Emma’s perch.

‘I thought I did know all Emma’s hiding-places,’ said Richard’s voice thoughtfully, ‘but clearly not. The little brat has obviously been keeping something from me. And if we don’t find her soon, she won’t have a chance to see you before you go—and then she’ll be fizzing mad.’

‘Why should she be?’ Hugo sounded puzzled. ‘She hardly knows me.’

‘With Emma, that’s not the point. She may be only thirteen, but she believes she has a divine right to know everything about everyone round here—and to put in her two penn’orth. If you leave without saying goodbye, she’ll ring a peal over me for ignoring her.’

‘But she’s only a child—’

‘Only sometimes, Hugo. Sometimes, she sounds exactly like a Society lady. It’s uncanny—especially since she still looks like a child, all dirt and scratches and tangles.’

‘Maybe she’s growing up,’ said Hugo quietly.

‘Now, that would be a pity,’ replied Richard. ‘We’ve had such fun together. She’s a great sport, you know. Never complains about cuts and bruises, or getting wet and muddy when we go fishing. I can’t imagine her as a young lady, all prim and proper and simpering—and clean!’ He laughed aloud at that.

Emma did not pause to wonder why Hugo was leaving, for she was almost overcome by righteous anger at Richard’s words. She was not always a grubby urchin as he seemed to believe and—

And then her eyes became riveted on the apple core. The tree was moving again, almost as if it were responding to Richard’s laughter. The apple core had become half-dislodged and it was starting to slip…

She held her breath. For a long moment, there was silence.

‘I wish I were going with you, Hugo,’ said Richard, sounding suddenly very serious. ‘But with m’father the way he is…’

‘I know.’ Hugo sounded sympathetic. ‘But even if Lord Hardinge were not ailing, you still wouldn’t be permitted to go, you know. There are times when I’m really glad I’m only a younger son. And this is one of them. My mother’s brother has told me what great fun he had when he first joined the regiment. The older officers played all sorts of tricks on him of course—it’s a bit like school, in that sense—but he had such adventures…’

‘Yes, I know. You told me, remember?’ Richard was more than a little envious of his friend’s good fortune. Emma could hear it in his voice. As an only son, he would never be allowed to join the army.

‘Where on earth can she be?’ said Richard with a sudden burst of fury. ‘You go and look in the orchard, Hugo. I’ll search down by the river, but that’s it. If we don’t find her in the next ten minutes, we’ll have to go. You can’t afford to be late.’ He thumped the tree in exasperation. ‘Blast the brat. Why can she never behave?’

The apple core jumped just a fraction, hung suspended in mid-air for what seemed like seconds, and then disappeared down through the leaves.

Emma swallowed a gasp. Then, with a tiny shrug of her shoulders, she leaned towards the gap in the branches. She might as well give in gracefully. They were bound to find her now.

But Richard had gone, striding angrily across the lawn in the direction of the river.

Down below her, a sudden shout of laughter was quickly stifled. Hugo’s voice, rippling with amusement, said quite clearly, ‘Now, that is strange. My education must have been sadly at fault. I’d have sworn that this was an oak tree, but it’s obviously an apple. Unless this is an oak-apple… Yes, that must be it. And the teeth-marks must have been made by a…a squirrel, I suppose. Very large squirrels they have on this estate. Next time, I’ll bring my gun…’

Emma could have sworn she saw a flash of white teeth through the leaves. The next moment, Hugo was sprinting across the grass to the orchard, without once looking back.

She stuffed her book into her pocket and began to climb down, automatically finding the well-known footholds. Little brat, was she? Never clean? Well, she would show Richard Hardinge.

She raced across the lawn to the side door, raging inwardly all the while. With Nurse’s help, she would be clean and ladylike in a trice—well, ten minutes, at most. She would appear as a prim, proper—and demure—young lady. She’d show him…them.

No. That wasn’t fair. Hugo Stratton had not called her a grimy brat. Hugo had known perfectly well where she was, but he had just laughed—and flashed that wonderful smile…

Chapter One

1816

Emma Fitzwilliam slowed her chestnut mare to a relatively sedate trot just before she came in sight of the lodge gates. It was bad enough that she had ridden out without her groom. No need to make matters worse by galloping into the Harding estate like a mannerless hoyden.

She patted her blonde hair into place. Time to assume the role of the perfect lady—the role that she had long since learnt to don as easily as a pair of fine silk stockings.

Emma was longing to see Richard and his wife again. It was only a few months since the Earl and Countess Hardinge had left England for the Continent but, to Emma, it seemed like years. Surprisingly, given that Richard had been her childhood friend, it was his wife, nicknamed Jamie, whom Emma had really missed. The two women had become as close as sisters since Jamie’s marriage. Letters had been exchanged, naturally, but that always meant delay; communications with France remained, at best, uncertain, even though the war had been over for nearly a year and Napoleon was now safely installed on St Helena.

There was nothing like a long, comfortable coze—and that was precisely why Emma had come.

She urged her mare to slightly greater speed.

As she rounded the corner of the house, Emma saw a little group of figures sitting on the lawn under the ancestral oak. She started towards them, but then paused, for Jamie was not there. Two men were sitting on a rug with a very small child, much hampered by his petticoats. Goodness, how Dickon had grown. Emma barely recognised her little godson. He must be nigh on a year old by now.

Dickon’s anxious nursemaid was hovering as close as she dared, watching lest the clumsy males should mishandle her charge. Not much chance of that in Richard’s case, Emma thought, for he doted on Dickon and spent much more time with his little son than most fathers did. The other gentleman, however, seemed not to have noticed the child. He was half-turned away, apparently gazing into the middle distance.

Emma screwed up her eyes against the glare to get a good view of the second man. She did not know him, she was sure, though she could see little more than his profile. He was dark, like Richard, but his lined face looked older and much more serious—rather austere, in fact, in Emma’s opinion. She hoped, secretly, that she would not have to meet him. It would spoil the happiness of her day to meet a man who preached at her.

At that moment, little Dickon started to toddle towards the newcomer, holding out his arms and grinning toothily. His inarticulate squeals of joy at his own prowess carried across the lawn. The nursemaid started forward, arms outstretched to catch her darling before he fell. Richard—apparently unconcerned—smiled benignly. Dickon took two more steps, rocking unsteadily from one side to the other. His precarious balance was obviously beginning to desert him; his infectious grin was turning into the quivering lip that promised a wail of disappointment.

And then the stranger turned back towards the child, bending forward to catch him and lift him high in the air. In a matter of moments, Dickon was convulsed in shrieks of delighted laughter.

When, at last, the man moved to return the child to his father, Emma caught sight of his profile once more.

She could scarce believe what she saw. Why, he was almost like a different person. Playing with Richard’s child had transformed the unknown from a harsh, forbidding man into someone much younger, someone whose face was alight with laughter and a flashing smile…and all because of one tiny child.

Emma suddenly felt as if she were eavesdropping on the visitor’s innermost thoughts. Instinctively, she urged her mare towards the house.

The door opened well before she reached it. The butler stood waiting for her, his normally impassive countenance wreathed in smiles for the young lady who had been running around the Harding estate almost since she had learned to walk. ‘Good day to you, Miss Emma. Her ladyship will be delighted to learn that you have called, I am sure. If you will just step into the blue saloon—’

‘Oh, I don’t think her ladyship would have us bother with such formality, do you, Digby?’ Emma bestowed a dazzling smile on the butler. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to be announced.’ Laying her whip and gloves on the hall table and lifting the generous skirts of her blue velvet habit with both hands, Emma started to run lightly up the stairs. ‘I assume Lady Hardinge is in her sitting room?’

‘Why, yes, ma’am,’ the butler called up to the disappearing figure, ‘but her ladyship is—’

Emma was not paying attention. She was much too keen to see her dearest friend again.

She knocked quickly and entered the Countess’s sitting room without waiting for an invitation.

Lady Hardinge was seated on the low chaise longue by the bay window, looking out across the lawn towards the oak tree. ‘Emma!’ she cried delightedly. She started to rise from her place, leaning heavily on the back to push herself up. After a second or two, she abandoned the effort and sank back into the cushions. ‘Forgive me, Emma. It is rather difficult to rise from this seat. You see—’

Emma flew across the room to embrace her friend. They hugged for a long time. Eventually, Emma stood back and said, in a voice of concern, ‘Are you unwell, Jamie, that you cannot…?’ Her words trailed into nothing as her eyes came to rest on Jamie’s middle. ‘Oh. I see,’ she said, a little uncertainly, mentally calculating the months since she had last seen her friend. ‘You did not tell me you were increasing before you left.’ Emma regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. They sounded like an accusation.

‘No,’ agreed Jamie with a somewhat tired smile. ‘I didn’t—’ she reached for Emma’s hand ‘—because I wasn’t.’

Emma looked at Jamie in disbelief. Surely she was at least six months gone?

‘The midwife in Brussels said it was twins,’ Jamie explained, ‘and, judging by how tired I feel—never mind the size of me—I think she must be right.’

‘Twins?’ Emma sat down quickly on the footstool by the chaise longue. ‘But—’

Jamie patted Emma’s hand reassuringly. ‘I know it sounds rather frightening, but I’ve had time to get used to it now. And it’s not my first, remember…’

Emma forced herself to return her friend’s smile. ‘Congratulations, Jamie. I should have said so at once, but I was so…you looked so…’

Jamie laughed. ‘Richard was at a loss for words, too, when I told him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so…so stricken. I told him there was nothing to worry about. I’m as strong as a horse. And I say the same to you, Emma. Don’t worry. Please.’

Emma squeezed Jamie’s hand. ‘I promise I’ll try not to. When is it…when are they due?’

‘Ah, now, that is more difficult. In the autumn, I think, but the midwife said twins are always early, often by several weeks. So, I don’t really know. Probably not before October.’

Emma’s eyes opened wide. Jamie had sounded almost nonchalant. ‘I see,’ Emma said noncommittally. To be honest, she was not sure she really wanted to see at all. Marriage was bound to involve babies, of course, but it was such a dangerous business, besides being plaguey uncomfortable in the months before. Only a very special man would make it worth the pain and risk, in Emma’s view. Jamie and Richard were a special case—they adored each other. But to marry a man one did not love…

Emma suddenly realised she had heard not a word of what her friend was saying. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. ‘Forgive me, Jamie,’ she said. ‘I was wool-gathering. What were you saying?’

Jamie looked indulgently at her friend. ‘I was telling you about our trip. There is so much devastation, Emma, you would be horrified to see it. Houses and villages in ruins, people in rags and starving. And everywhere, mutilated men begging for a crust. We helped where we could but… Honestly, Emma, I wept sometimes at what I saw. Oh, I know we had to defeat that tyrant, but the cost was so much more than any of us could have imagined.’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said seriously. ‘The beggars are in England now, too, and it seems that very few of us are grateful for their sacrifice. Papa said he saw several of them being driven out of town only last week. He has taken one of them on as a stable hand, but he was unable to do much for the others, unfortunately. The money he gave them will not last all that long.’

Jamie was silent for a space, thinking. ‘Your father is a good man,’ she said at last. ‘He cares for the weak.’ She looked up suddenly, her eyes alight. ‘We, too, have an extra hand in the stables now, a man to whom we owe a debt we can never repay. He helped save the life of Richard’s dearest friend. Richard was sure he was dead on the battlefield. I never told you—for Richard asked me not to speak of it—but we went to Brussels in hopes of finding the grave. Instead, we found… Well, suffice it to say that Richard is over the moon at what has happened. He says that just finding Hugo alive is more than he had dared to hope for. Against that, it matters not a whit that—’

‘Hugo? Hugo Stratton?’ cried Emma, jumping up from her stool and knocking it over in her haste to reach the door.

‘Why, yes,’ replied Jamie, puzzled. ‘You don’t know him, do you? He’s down in the garden with Richard and Dickon, but— Emma, wait!’ Jamie was again trying to lever her ungainly bulk out of the chaise longue. By the time she had regained her feet, Emma was gone.

Emma raced across the lawn, berating herself at every step. How could she have failed to recognise Hugo Stratton, the man whose wickedly smiling face had haunted her girlish dreams for months on end? The identity of the stranger had burst upon Emma like an exploding star the moment Jamie had mentioned his name…

The little group was still sitting under the oak tree. Emma smiled to herself, deliberately slowing her pace to a more ladylike walk. How apt that they should meet again under an oak, even if not the same one. Emma had climbed Richard’s oak, too, many and many a time when they were children. She knew it almost as well as she knew her own.

And much better than she knew Hugo Stratton.

What on earth was she going to say to him?

Emma gulped. Would he recognise her? She was a fine lady now, nothing like the grubby little brat he had generously allowed to tease him. She had been a mere child when Hugo left to join the army. To be honest, there was absolutely no reason why he should remember her at all, especially after all he had been through. And yet…

As Emma neared the little group, she saw that Dickon was now sound asleep in his father’s arms. Richard looked proud and happy—and just a mite self-satisfied, too. Hugo was talking quietly to Richard, his back towards Emma. It seemed that neither was aware of her approach.

She hesitated. Then, noticing the enquiring look thrown at her by the nursemaid, she lifted her head a notch and marched across the lawn, arms swinging, skirts trailing unheeded on the warm grass.

‘Why, Richard…’ she began.

Richard, Earl Hardinge, rose to his feet in a single athletic movement, the child in his arms cradled snugly all the while. He smiled broadly, nodding sideways towards the nursemaid to come and relieve him of his son. He did not speak until he had carefully transferred his burden to her waiting arms. Even then, he still whispered.

‘Emma. How wonderful to see you so soon. I had planned to call tomorrow…’

Richard’s words were cut off as Emma threw her arms round his neck and kissed him heartily on the cheek. ‘I could not wait to see you both…no, all three of you.’ As Emma spoke, she became conscious that she had not included Hugo in that number—and that Hugo had not risen to meet her. Intrigued, she turned around.

Hugo was struggling to stand up, pushing an ebony cane into the soft turf in an effort to gain a purchase for his weak legs. His head was still bent, but Emma could see from the heightened colour on his neck how much the effort was costing him. How awful for him. He had been gravely wounded, clearly—Richard had thought him dead—and he was still not fully recovered. The explanation was simple enough—and obvious now she stopped to think about it. Probably it would be best to pretend that nothing was amiss.

Emma fixed her friendliest smile on her lips and waited for Hugo to regain his balance. When, at last, he seemed to have overcome his weakness, she began, cheerily, ‘You may not remember me, Hugo, but I certainly remember the last time we met. I owe you a debt of gratitude for not betraying my presence to a certain mutual friend of ours—’ she turned back to grin conspiratorially at Richard ‘—a friend who fails to understand the significance of apple cores.’

‘I remember you very well indeed, Miss Fitzwilliam, and I was happy to be of service.’

His tone was flat and formal. And his use of her full name struck Emma almost like a blow. She whirled back round to look at this man who was so quick to reject the easy friendship she was offering.

Emma could not suppress an audible gasp. If only she had been prepared…

Hugo Stratton was nothing like the memory she had treasured. Gone was the handsome, eager young man who had smiled up into her favourite oak tree. Under his obviously new civilian clothes, this Hugo Stratton was thin and pinched, so weak that he could not stand upright without the help of a stick. The profile she had seen earlier was lined, right enough—but the lines were clearly lines of pain, not of joy or laughter. And, on the left profile that had been hidden from her, a thin purple scar ran from forehead to chin, bisecting his eyebrow and his cheek and continuing down below his collar. Heaven alone knew what damage lay below.

He stared her out. And he did not smile.

Emma swallowed hard and bowed her head politely, desperately trying to disguise the horror she instinctively felt. It was a full thirty seconds before she felt able to say, ‘How do you do, Mr Stratton?’

Chapter Two

‘I am so glad you have met Major Stratton again, Emma, since he will be staying with us for a time—while he recovers his strength.’ Jamie was sitting on a high spoon-back chair in the first-floor drawing room, dispensing tea from a fluted silver pot and looking hopefully at her inarticulate guests.

Richard carried a cup to Emma with an encouraging smile. But Emma still could not bring herself to speak again. Out on the lawn, she had wished for the ground to open and swallow her up. Now her feet were resting on a priceless Aubusson carpet, but the feeling was the same. She stared at the delicate pattern, willing it to slide back beneath her chair.

The strained silence continued while Richard ferried tea to his friend, who was seated rather awkwardly on the sofa with his cane propped up beside him. His left leg did not seem to bend very well at the knee.

‘Hugo—’ began Richard.

‘Major Stratton—’ said Jamie at the same moment.

Richard and Jamie broke off and grinned at each other, quite unabashed. Richard made a very grand bow, indicating that his wife should go first.

‘Ignore him, both of you,’ Jamie said. ‘He’s play-acting. Fancies himself to be dressed in a wasp-waisted satin coat and buckled shoes with red heels, making a leg like the veriest macaroni.’

Richard contrived to look pained. ‘Nothing of the sort, wife,’ he said. ‘I was merely conceding the precedence that you have so often informed me is your due.’

His face was such a mixture of innocence and mischief that Emma found herself laughing along with Jamie.

But Hugo did not join in, Emma noticed. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself. And his tea sat untouched by his hand.

Emma decided then that it was up to her to make the attempt to draw him out. After all, her total want of manners had been the cause of severe embarrassment to Hugo. She must stop thinking about how badly she felt. Hugo’s position was surely far, far worse.

‘I am sure you will make excellent progress here, Major Stratton,’ Emma said, trying to infuse her voice with as much warmth as she could. ‘I know at first hand what attentive hosts Richard and Jamie can be. And the estate is a delight in summer.’

Hugo turned his head to look directly at Emma. There seemed to be a challenge in that look. It seemed, somehow, familiar. Now that she was beginning to see beyond his terrible scars, she could at last recognise something of the young man she had remembered so vividly. His hair was still glossy and dark, his eyes still gleamed like polished steel, and his generous mouth still looked as if it might smile at any moment. But it did not. And his eyes remained hard as they swept over Emma’s figure. Emma detected not the slightest sign of approval of what he saw. Probably he favoured taller women…or brunettes.

‘I am sure you are right, Miss Fitzwilliam,’ replied Hugo at last, ‘especially about Lady Hardinge’s hospitality, for which I am most grateful. As to the estate, I shall do my best, but as I am unable to ride or to walk very far, I doubt I shall see all that much of it.’

Emma was suddenly quite sure that Hugo was relishing her discomfiture. Embarrassment vanished, to be replaced by an unwonted surge of anger. How dared he? He obviously thought his wounds gave him licence to behave outrageously. Well—she would show him.

Emma smiled dangerously. ‘I am sure that, with time and Lady Hardinge’s care, you will soon regain your strength, Major. I pray it may be so. And, in the meantime, you may fish and shoot to your heart’s content, may you not?’

‘No.’ He dropped his gaze so that Emma could no longer see the expression in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Fitzwilliam. My left arm is much too weak for either.’

‘But I saw you throwing Dickon up in the air—’ Emma blurted out the words without stopping to think. How tactless she was suddenly becoming.

‘Dickon is not exactly a heavyweight, you know,’ Hugo explained patiently. ‘And besides, my good arm took most of the strain.’

Emma looked away. She could think of nothing to say to cover yet another appalling faux pas. She ought to apologise—but that would probably just make matters worse. What on earth had happened to the Emma who was held up to débutantes as a pattern-card of feminine grace and good manners? Emma cringed inwardly. Somehow, Hugo Stratton was making her forget all the lessons she had ever learned about how to be a lady in polite Society.

The chiming of the long-case clock in the hall broke the renewed silence.

‘Good gracious,’ said Emma, ‘how late it is. I must go.’ She rose quickly from her seat. ‘I’m afraid I was so excited about seeing you all, that I failed to tell anyone where I was going. Papa will be worrying by now. I only hope he hasn’t sent out a search party.’ With an apologetic smile, she started for the door. ‘Oh, pray, do not get up,’ she said hastily, as both Jamie and Hugo struggled to rise. ‘I know my way very well.’

Richard was only just in time to open the door for her.

By the time Richard returned from escorting Emma to the stables, Hugo was alone in the drawing room, leaning against the folded wooden shutter for support as he gazed out across the park.

‘Miss Fitzwilliam has an excellent seat,’ Hugo said as Richard joined him at the long window.

‘Mmm,’ agreed Richard. ‘Almost as good as Jamie’s. Where is my wife, by the way?’

‘Lady Hardinge went upstairs to rest. She was rather tired by all the excitement, she said.’ Hugo could not drag his eyes from Emma’s retreating figure. The urchin had become a real beauty. Her manners were not exactly faultless, but her behaviour was certainly a remarkable improvement on the impossible child he remembered. Besides, she had been doing her best to conceal how repulsive she found him—which could not have been easy. He should not judge her.

Richard put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘What say we adjourn to the library, Hugo? It’s more comfortable down there, and there’s some decent madeira.’

Hugo half-turned from the window. Emma was just passing out of sight into the trees. ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,’ he said softly, with a note of apology in his voice. ‘It will soon be time to go upstairs to change for dinner, and—’

‘And your host has the manners of a boor to wish to condemn you to incessant stair-climbing. I’m sorry I was so thoughtless, Hugo.’ He crossed to the bell-pull. ‘I’ll have the madeira brought up here.’

Hugo looked at his friend and smiled warmly. He owed Richard so very much—and Lady Hardinge, too. Who else would have taken in the wreck of a man that he had become?

‘How long is it since you last saw Emma?’ said Richard, dropping on to the sofa and stretching out his long legs.

Hugo limped slowly across the room to join his friend, noting that Richard now knew better than to make any attempt to help him. ‘More than ten years.’ He lowered himself awkwardly on to the spoon-back chair that Lady Hardinge had vacated, grateful for its relatively high seat. ‘In fact, it was the day I left Harding to join my regiment. I could never forget that. I was so excited—so certain of adventure, and glory, and…’ Hugo’s words trailed off into heavy silence.

Nothing more was said until the butler had received his orders and returned with the tray of refreshments.

Pouring out the madeira, Richard showed a renewed determination to be cheerful. ‘So, what do you think of Emma now? You have to admit, she’s changed.’

Hugo nodded. ‘She didn’t have the look of a beauty then, certainly.’

Richard laughed. ‘How could you tell, under all that dirt?’

Hugo raised an eyebrow. ‘Your memory is at fault, old friend. By the time we actually saw her that day, she was really quite clean. And remarkably well behaved, considering she’d been skulking up trees.’

‘Had she?’ Richard drank his madeira thoughtfully. ‘You may be right about that day. I’m afraid I don’t actually remember it very well at all. Emma’s been around for so long that all my early memories of her tend to merge. She was always there, always ready for anything, and always dirty. Until her father took her in hand and insisted she learn to be a lady. By the time of her come-out, she was totally transformed. A blonde beauty—with faultless manners for every occasion. I was quite sorry, in a way. I was very fond of her mischievous spirit. I miss it.’

Hugo said nothing. Richard spoke as if Emma had been moulded into a completely different person, a sort of beautiful automaton. What made him think that Emma’s mischievous spirit had been extinguished? Surely, having known her so long, he could see that Emma was still the same person under her conventional façade? Wasn’t it obvious?

‘In one way, though, she is still the same girl,’ Richard continued after a moment. ‘Can’t tell you how many offers she’s had, but she’s refused them all. She’s already mistress of her own household, of course, and a considerable heiress to boot, so she can afford to be choosy—though I fancy Sir Edward is beginning to worry that he’ll never see his grandchildren. He still dotes on her. And she knows exactly how to wind him round her little finger—just as she does with almost every man she meets. She may have perfect manners—but I warn you that she’s highly accomplished at getting her own way.’

‘Sir Edward may have hoped that you would offer for his daughter,’ said Hugo. ‘After all—’

‘I did think of it at one time,’ interrupted Richard, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘But then I met Jamie…’

Hugo nodded. Marriage to Emma Fitzwilliam would have been a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience, whereas Richard’s marriage to Jamie was a union of two souls. Hugo took a deep breath and closed his eyes in sudden pain. He envied Richard his happiness. There was no point in denying that, not to himself. Once, he too might have hoped to marry for love—but now he would never marry at all. Love—and children—were not for him. No woman would have a disfigured cripple—especially one whose honour was as scarred as his body. The best he could hope for would be a comfortable home and kindly servants to wait on him. At least he had wealth enough to secure that, and his own independence. He would make a life for himself, somehow, however much the world might shun him. He would learn to survive alone.

Emma was sure Hugo was watching her from the house, but she refused to turn in her saddle or to increase her pace. He would not be allowed to see how much their meeting had unnerved her.

‘Just a few yards more, Juno,’ she said, stroking her mare’s glossy neck, ‘and we’ll be hidden by the trees. Then we’ll take the shortcut home across the fields. I think we could both do with a good gallop.’

The chestnut’s ears twitched in response, as if she understood.

Emma continued to stroke the mare’s neck absently, allowing the horse to make her own way along the familiar route from Harding to Longacres. There was something niggling in the back of Emma’s mind, a fleeting memory about Hugo Stratton, but she could not catch it. Like a soap bubble in the bath, it floated out of reach every time she tried to grab for it.

‘Oh, fiddlesticks,’ groaned Emma, deliberately swallowing the curse that had risen automatically to her lips. ‘I’ve let him see enough bad manners for one day. I’d better practise being a lady for the rest of it. Once I reach home, at least…’ She dug her heel into Juno’s flank. ‘Come on then, Juno,’ she urged. ‘Let’s show them what you can do.’

The chestnut flew across the grass as though the devil were at her heels. By the time they reached the stable yard, Juno was in a lather—and Emma was gasping for breath. But at least they had lost no more time.

‘Where on earth have you been, Miss Emma?’ cried the grizzled old groom, dashing out of the stables to grab Juno’s bridle. ‘Your father’s worrying fit to burst. He—’

Emma slid from the saddle and stopped the old man’s tirade with an apologetic smile and a touch on his arm. ‘One of the keepers told me Lord Hardinge was back from London—so I called in at the house. It was on my way—more or less,’ she added, hoping she was not blushing. ‘But I stayed too long. Is Papa very worried?’

‘Well—he hasn’t started scouring the woods yet, Miss Emma, though I dare say he might have done, in another hour or so. If only you wouldn’t ride out alone, Miss Emma…’

Emma grinned. ‘Look after Juno for me, please,’ she said. ‘I’d better present myself for inspection, to prove I’m all in one piece.’ Looping the tail of her habit over her arm, Emma hurried up to the house and her father’s study.

‘Emma!’ he cried, the moment she appeared in the doorway.

Emma could hear the note of concern in his voice. Oh, dear. First, she had upset Hugo, and now her father.

She ran to him, wrapped her arms tightly round his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘Forgive me, Papa, for being so thoughtless. I went to visit Richard and…and I’m afraid I lost track of time. I’m sorry you were worried.’

Her father cleared his throat rather loudly. ‘Emma, if you would only take a groom with you, I’d have no cause to worry. Why don’t you—?’

Emma fixed her wide blue gaze on her father’s face. ‘Oh, Papa, must I? Don’t you think I can ride well enough to be trusted out on my own?’

‘It’s not that—and you know it,’ he responded gruffly, removing each of her arms in turn. ‘The very best of riders can be caught out. That includes you, Emma.’

He was right. Even Juno had been spooked on occasion by a strange noise or a sudden movement.

Emma kissed her father a second time. ‘I’ll try to be good, Papa, I promise,’ she said. His answering smile told her she had won him round yet again. He was easily satisfied.

‘Well,’ he said, settling himself back in his favourite chair, ‘tell me about Richard. Is he well? And little Dickon? Did you see Lady Hardinge, too? I dare swear she is worn out, after all that travelling.’

‘They are all very well, Papa. And Dickon has grown so much that you will not recognise him. He is starting to walk, too. Jamie is…’ Emma hesitated. ‘Jamie is…increasing again. The midwife says it will be twins.’ Her words all came out in a rush.

‘Twins?’ echoed Sir Edward. ‘Oh, my… Oh, dear…’

Emma could see that he was thinking back to the loss of his own wife, when Emma was born. Emma sat down beside him and patted his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Papa. Jamie says she’s as strong as a horse. And it’s not as if it’s her first…’ Emma’s voice tailed off once more. What a stupid thing to say, reminding her father that first babies—like Emma—were by far the most dangerous. What was the matter with her today? Her brain seemed to be scrambled.

‘You’ll never guess who is staying at Harding, Papa.’ Emma changed the subject with exaggerated cheerfulness.

Sir Edward smiled a little wanly. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘Hugo Stratton. Major Hugo Stratton. Do you remember him?’

Sir Edward nodded. ‘Yes, I do. A Major, eh? Well, I’m not at all surprised. I thought he had the makings of a good officer, even then. Let me see—how many years is it since he joined the colours? Eight?’

‘Nearly eleven, Papa,’ said Emma.

‘Really? Strange that he hasn’t made Colonel, then,’ said Sir Edward, half to himself. ‘Though he’d have to compete with all those fellows buying their promotions, I suppose. There aren’t that many field promotions, even in wartime. And a majority is still something to be proud of.’

‘Papa, I don’t understand. What is wrong with being a Major?’

‘Nothing, my dear, nothing. I’m sure Major Stratton has had a distinguished career. He’s sold out now, I suppose?’

‘I…I don’t know, Papa. He…he has been badly wounded. I’m not sure how, or when. He walks with a limp and has to use a cane. And he…his face is horribly scarred, Papa.’ Her father’s shock was evident. ‘Oh, I’m sure it will look better in time but, at the moment…’

Suddenly, Emma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Papa, I’ve done such a dreadful thing. I didn’t know, you see. And when I saw Hugo, I got such a shock that I…I embarrassed him terribly, staring at his scars. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. And Hugo was insulted. He could hardly bring himself to speak to me. Oh, Papa, I’m so ashamed. What shall I do?’

Sir Edward patted her shoulder consolingly. ‘You must apologise,’ he said quietly.

‘I tried to, but I couldn’t get the words out, not when he was staring me out with those hard grey eyes of his. And now, it’s too late to say anything. That would only make matters worse.’

He offered her his handkerchief. ‘You may be right, my dear.’ He paused to pull at his ear lobe, as he always did when he was worrying about something. ‘Well, if you cannot tell him you are sorry, you must show him, go out of your way to help him to…to come to terms with his injuries. Can you do that, do you think?’

Emma nodded dumbly and wiped her eyes, feeling more ashamed than ever. She never lost control. She had always prided herself on that. And she never allowed herself to cry—especially not in front of her papa. He liked her to be gay, and cheerful, and…and strong-minded. As she would be again.

Even with Major Hugo Stratton.

Chapter Three

‘No. I could not accept.’

Jamie cast an imploring look towards her husband. She had clearly exhausted her own arguments and was desperate for him to intervene.

‘Hugo, please reconsider,’ Richard said seriously. ‘The Fitzwilliams are our oldest friends. They will be very hurt if you refuse.’

‘I have absolutely no intention of providing a raree-show for Miss Fitzwilliam and her dinner guests, Richard. Acceptance is out of the question. Now, if you will excuse me…’ Hugo limped towards the door. ‘My apologies to you, ma’am,’ he said as he opened it, ‘if my refusal creates difficulties for you with your friends. But my mind is made up. I will not attend.’ He closed the door quietly behind him.

‘Oh, dear.’ Jamie’s shoulders had slumped. ‘How will we ever persuade him to return to Society if he will not attend even a small dinner amongst friends?’

Richard shook his head sadly. He hated to see his wife so upset. ‘I don’t know, my love. I really don’t. I’d ask Emma to talk to him—but, after yesterday’s encounter, he seems to wish to avoid her completely.’ He started to pace. ‘I had better ride over to Longacres to warn Emma, though, before she receives Hugo’s note. If she learns of his refusal by letter, we really will be in the suds.’

‘Tell her how hard we tried, Richard,’ said Jamie, a little wearily.

‘I will—but she will know that without my telling her. Remember, she knows you.’ Richard bent to place a gentle, lingering kiss on his wife’s lips. ‘Don’t worry, my love. Even if we can’t resolve this now, it will soon blow over. And Hugo is bound to become less sensitive—eventually.’

That thought remained with Richard throughout his ride across his own estate to Sir Edward’s. Hugo was as stubborn as a mule—and stiff-necked besides, as well as proud, touchy, exasperating… Richard could have continued with his list for some time, but he did not. Hugo was a good man, and a good friend, who had suffered a great deal during his years as a soldier. With time, his testiness would mellow—probably.

‘Richard!’

Emma was almost upon him before Richard realised that she was there. Damn! He hadn’t yet worked out how he was going to explain to her about Hugo’s refusal.

Emma was too full of her own laudable aims to notice that there was anything amiss with Richard. ‘You weren’t coming to visit me, were you, Richard?’ she asked brightly. ‘No need, for I am before you. And since I have already covered a much greater distance than you, it would be ungentlemanly in you to expect me to retrace my steps—’ she smiled like the cheeky child she had once been ‘—would it not?’

Richard’s answering smile was a little forced, Emma thought. Perhaps he had been coming to remonstrate with her in private about her unacceptable treatment of Hugo. He had cause, but she would not permit any man to lecture her. ‘To tell you the truth, Richard,’ began Emma, more seriously now, and determined to make a clean breast of her failings, ‘I was hoping for a chance to talk to Hugo, to apologise for my behaviour yesterday—’ that was not quite true, she realised ‘—or, at least, to try to show him that I mean us to be friends again. It was just that I…I was unprepared for the change in him. I—’

‘Jamie did try to warn you, Emma.’ Emma recognised Richard’s ‘big brother’ voice. ‘If you hadn’t rushed out so quickly—’

‘I know. And I’m sorry, Richard. Truly.’ Emma tried to look contrite, but she knew she was not making a very good fist of it. She was going to make amends. Surely that was enough? ‘However, once Hugo has been introduced to all his old friends, he will have no more cause for concern. I shall visit all the guests before the dinner party to warn them so that—’

‘Hugo refuses to attend, Emma.’

‘No! He wouldn’t! He—’

‘He’s adamant, Emma. That’s what I was coming to tell you.’ Richard was looking away suddenly, unable to meet Emma’s eye. ‘He…he thinks you invited him in order to use him as a sort of…’ He cleared his throat rather too noisily. ‘He hates to be stared at,’ he finished at last.

Emma was shocked, then disbelieving, then angry when the import of Richard’s words sank in. She urged her mare into a trot. ‘So that’s what he thinks of me,’ she said hotly. ‘Well, let’s see if he has the gall to say so to my face. How dare he assume—?’

‘Emma.’ Richard caught up with her and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Emma, calm down. Please. If you fly up into the boughs with Hugo, he’ll probably pack his bags and leave. And considering the trouble we had in persuading him to come here in the first place—’ Richard broke off suddenly. From the look on his face, Emma fancied her friend had said more than he intended.

Emma slowed Juno to a gentle walk, forcing Richard to do the same. ‘Richard,’ she said earnestly, ‘I don’t really understand what is going on. I know I behaved unpardonably yesterday; and I do want to set matters right. That was why I persuaded Papa to hold a little dinner party for Hugo. I thought he… Well, no matter what I thought. Obviously, I was wrong. From what you say, it seems as if it’s more than just… Oh, I know the scars are dreadful, but surely they will fade?’

Richard hesitated for several moments. ‘Hugo has changed a great deal, Emma. It’s more than just his wounds, I think, but he will not speak of his experiences, even to me, his oldest friend. Jamie had the devil’s own job persuading him to come to Harding at all. He was set to bury himself on a rundown manor miles from anywhere.’

‘Oh.’ Emma did not know what to say. Nothing in her upbringing had prepared her to deal with a man like Hugo Stratton.

‘Perhaps it would be best if you didn’t come to Harding for a day or two, Emma. Give Hugo time to come down from his high horse.’

‘Of course, I…’ As she spoke the words politeness demanded, Emma knew instinctively that they were wrong. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I shan’t give him time to persuade himself that I am a heartless trophy-hunter. I was not planning to put him on display, as he seems to think, and I intend to make him admit as much.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘Devil take the man,’ she said fiercely. ‘Can’t he see that I’m trying to help him?’

Emma’s resolution had all but deserted her by the time she finally caught sight of Hugo among the trees. He had walked much further from the house than she had expected. Judging from his painfully slow pace, it must have taken a very long time to come this far.

Emma swung the tail of her claret-coloured velvet habit over her arm and hurried down the woodland path to intercept him. She knew she was looking her best in her new habit and jaunty little hat, and she was determined not to make a mull of this second meeting.

‘Major Stratton.’ She smiled encouragingly at Hugo’s tense figure. He had stopped at the sight of her. She stepped forward to meet him, holding out her gloved hand. ‘Good morning to you,’ she said, refusing to be daunted by his hard gaze and willing her hand not to shake.

Eventually, Hugo transferred his cane to his left hand and quickly shook Emma’s hand. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he replied.

Emma could detect no trace of warmth in his deep voice, nor any hint that he wished to prolong their encounter. But she would not cry off now. ‘I see that I was wrong to take you at your word yesterday, sir,’ she began in as light-hearted a tone as she could muster.

He threw her a sharp glance from beneath frowning brows before busying himself once more with his walking cane.

‘You told me you could not walk very far, did you not? But I find you a considerable distance from the house. I collect you have been bamming me, sir.’ She looked straight at him then, letting him see the smiling challenge in her eyes.

He returned her gaze frankly for what seemed an age, but she could read nothing of his thoughts.

‘Even cripples may improve, ma’am,’ he said quite softly. ‘The more I walk, the more I shall be able to walk. Would you have me lie down and moulder away?’

‘No, certainly not. How could you think it?’

The tiniest smile crossed Hugo’s lips as she spoke.

Emma’s temper snapped like the dry twigs beneath her boots. ‘Oh, you are quite impossible, Hugo Stratton, all thin skin and stiff-necked pride. You imagine that everyone is relishing your misfortunes or repelled by your scars. You believe that I invited you to my father’s house in order to provide cheap entertainment for my other guests. You think—’ She shook her head so sharply that the long red feather on her hat whipped at her cheek. ‘Whatever you think, you are wrong,’ she continued quietly as he made to speak. ‘When I was a child, you were my friend. I wanted us to continue to be friends—so much so that, as soon as I realised who was sitting with Richard and Dickon, I dashed out to meet you without listening to what Jamie was trying to tell me. So—yes—I was shocked when I saw you. And I…I wish to apologise for my rudeness. I hope you will forgive me.’

Was there a slight softening in Hugo’s stern features? Emma ventured a small smile. ‘I hope we can still be friends.’

Hugo sighed softly. ‘I am no longer the boy you knew, Miss Fitzwilliam,’ he said at last.

‘No,’ replied Emma, ‘but I do not believe that it changes matters.’

Hugo raised his good eyebrow. ‘Indeed?’

There was something about that quirked eyebrow… Years before, it had always been accompanied by a gleam of hidden laughter…

‘Major Stratton—’ Emma stared at Hugo through narrowed eyes ‘—I declare you are laughing at me.’

Clearly, she must be wrong, for there was not the slightest trace of amusement in his face as he took a menacing step towards her. Emma retreated automatically, but the heel of her riding boot caught on her trailing hem, throwing her off balance.

A strong right arm saved her. In that same moment, Emma heard Hugo’s cane clatter against the granite rocks alongside the path.

Emma found she was gasping for breath, like a winded fighter. The arm supporting her felt immensely strong, much too strong for Hugo’s emaciated frame. It felt warm, too, and somehow gentle. How strange that—

‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

Hugo’s question brought Emma back to earth. At last, that cold, hard edge had gone from his voice.

Emma used her free hand to pull her trailing skirt from under her heel. The skin of her other arm was beginning to heat within Hugo’s sustaining grasp. The glowing warmth was like nothing she had ever experienced before.

‘Miss Fitzwilliam?’

Emma blushed rosily. What was she thinking of? ‘Thank you, Major,’ she said. ‘Your prompt action prevented me from becoming an undignified heap on this path. I am most grateful.’ She smiled up at him through her lashes, forcing herself to maintain the expression even when he withdrew his hand from her arm. ‘If you will permit me to say so, sir, you are much stronger than you look,’ she added saucily.

Hugo grinned briefly and, Emma fancied, somewhat ruefully. ‘Needs must when the devil drives, ma’am,’ he said. ‘With only one good arm, I could not have lifted you from the ground, you know. So I had no choice but to stop you while I still could.’

Emma stared at him in frank amazement. Was he actually laughing at himself? This time she could not be mistaken, surely?

She stooped quickly to retrieve his cane—and to hide her whirling thoughts from his penetrating eyes. She could not begin to understand him. Her childhood friend was still there—somewhere—but, overlaid on the young Hugo there was the oddest chameleon of a man…

‘Your cane, Major.’ Straight-faced, she handed it to him.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said politely. There was a moment or two of awkward silence between them. Then Hugo surprised her yet again by saying, ‘I was about to return to the house, as it happens. If it would not be too tedious for you, I would welcome your company for a space.’

Emma nodded in astonished agreement. What had come over him? He sounded—

‘I am only sorry,’ Hugo continued in the same polite tones, ‘that I cannot offer you my arm.’ He flourished his cane with his right hand as he spoke.

Emma smiled to herself but said nothing. For twenty minutes, they walked slowly along the path in companionable silence. The pine needles and the previous season’s dry leaves crunched beneath their feet. A faint scent of crushed pine rose up around them. A woodpecker was drumming in the distance.

By the time Emma had worked out what she needed to say, they had reached the edge of the wood. From there, the long path led straight up to the stables and the house. They were now in full view of anyone watching from the windows.

Emma stopped under the last oak tree, waiting for Hugo to turn back to her. She smiled at him in wide-eyed innocence, hoping for even the slightest hint of a response. With most men, she knew exactly what reaction to expect, but Hugo was totally unpredictable.

At last, his gaze seemed to soften the merest fraction.

‘Major,’ she said gently, ‘I do hope you will accept our dinner invitation.’ He started to frown, but she hurried on. ‘It is to be a very small affair, you know, just ourselves and the Hardinges…and a few old friends. You remember the Rector and Mrs Greenwood, I’m sure, and Mrs Halliday? I know they would all like to meet you again.’ She dropped her gaze and let her voice sink a little more. ‘I promise you that all of them are much better-mannered than I. You will not be embarrassed.’

Emma could feel the heat of a flush on her face and neck. She did not dare to raise her eyes.

‘How can I possibly refuse?’ said Hugo quietly.

Emma looked up at last to see that he was limping slowly back to the house. She had won.

But she had guaranteed Hugo would not be embarrassed in her house. Could she ensure that her promise was kept?

Chapter Four

Hugo lay back on his pillows and gazed out through the open bed-curtains at the first faint glimmerings of the dawn. Years of living in the Peninsula had taught him to love the huge expanse of the night sky and the unchanging patterns of the stars. He would never again permit drawn curtains to shut them out—or to shut him in.

Gingerly, he raised his injured left arm so that he could clasp his hands behind his head. That simple movement, never before achieved, gave him profound satisfaction. Yes, he was making progress—a little progress.

He focused on the day ahead—and on the evening. He was a fool to have accepted her invitation. It would mean nothing but embarrassment for him; and the usual expressions of pity and horror at his injuries. But she had been so apologetic about their disastrous first meeting. And, for just a single moment, she had made him feel like a whole man again.

Hugo groaned aloud. It would not do to remember Emma too clearly. Her figure-hugging riding habit would have fired any man’s blood; and that long feather had reached down from her saucy little hat, caressing the soft bloom of her cheek like a lover’s hand. He had known that she was working her wiles on him—but, even as he recognised how artfully she was using her huge blue eyes, he had found himself unable to resist them.

The hoyden child had become a siren woman.

Hugo closed his eyes once more, trying to shut out Emma’s persistent image. It would not do for him to think too kindly of her. She was a spoilt, flirtatious little minx—in some respects she had not changed one jot—and she obviously enjoyed making a May game of every man she met. How many offers had she rejected out of hand? Richard had not said precisely, but there had certainly been quite a number. And, in spite of such behaviour, she was still the toast of London Society, with every eligible male dangling after her.

Hugo’s weak arm was now very stiff. He straightened it with difficulty, and some pain, which reminded him that he, at least, was far from eligible.

Hugo leant back in his chair, his right hand playing idly with his glass of port. So far, at least, the Longacres dinner party had passed off much better than he had dared to hope. None of the guests had stared; and no one had embarrassed him in any way, not even by offering to help him on the stairs. Clearly, Emma had been as good as her word. Hugo felt himself warming to her even more. She might be a little spoilt—just a very little, he had now decided—but she could be thoughtful, and kind. She was upstairs now with the ladies, where she would be dispensing coffee with that radiant smile of hers, and ensuring that every one of her guests felt she had been singled out for special attention.

Exactly as he had felt, when he arrived with the Hardinges.

Naturally, Emma’s first priority had been Lady Hardinge, but she had welcomed Hugo with gentle words, and with warmth in her eyes and in the clasp of her hand. He had had leisure, then, to admire her from a distance while she settled Lady Hardinge into a comfortable chair in the saloon, putting extra cushions in the small of her back. It was no wonder that Emma had become the toast of London Society, he had concluded; her radiant golden beauty would have ensured her success, even if she had been penniless. Tonight, she was glowing in a simple gown of cream silk, with a posy of forget-me-nots at her bosom, their clear blue serving only to point up the intense colour of Emma’s eyes. Hugo found himself envying the man who would win her.

‘Don’t you agree, Hugo?’

Richard was speaking. But what had he said? Hugo raised his glass and sipped, savouring the rich sweetness for a moment. Then he smiled a little ruefully. ‘Forgive me, Richard. I was miles away. What did you say?’

Richard shook his head. ‘I never had you down for a dreamer, Hugo—except about adventures, of course.’

‘That was a long time ago, I fear,’ Hugo responded neutrally. These last few days, Richard had begun to make oblique references to their shared past and to Hugo’s years of soldiering. It was necessary, Hugo knew, and he was grateful to Richard for his tact.

‘As it happens,’ Richard continued with barely a pause, ‘we were talking of the Derby. Sir Edward’s Golden Star is being heavily backed at Tatt’s. Is that not so, sir?’ He turned to his host at the head of the table.

Sir Edward paused in the act of refilling his own glass. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he smiled. ‘Odds are terrible. I wouldn’t hazard your blunt on him now, Major, even if he is the favourite. There’s no such thing as a certain winner for the Derby, as I know to my cost. You’d get better odds on one of the others. Try Grafton’s nag. After all, his horse won last year. Can’t remember what this one’s called…something foreign, I fancy.’

‘Alien,’ put in the Rector from further down the table. Beyond him, young Mr Mountjoy nodded eagerly.

Hugo suppressed a chuckle at the thought of such precise knowledge coming from a gentleman in clerical bands. The Reverend Greenwood had been an avid man of the turf in his youth and made no secret of his continuing interest, even though he had long ago ceased to place bets himself. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hugo. ‘And is he worth a wager, in your opinion?’

‘Possibly,’ said the Rector doubtfully, ‘though I prefer Nectar myself. But if Golden Star is on form, he’ll show them all a clean pair of heels, you mark my words. I suppose Alien might be good for a place, though.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hugo again. ‘I think I’ll save my blunt for better odds.’

‘You’re probably very wise, Major,’ said Sir Edward, nodding. ‘But I hope you’ll join our party to Epsom, none the less. It promises to be a very jolly affair. Richard is coming, are you not, Richard?’

Richard looked suddenly somewhat disconcerted. ‘Well, sir,’ he began, ‘I’m not exactly certain. I…Jamie’s condition…’

Sir Edward reddened visibly and cleared his throat. ‘Beg pardon, Richard,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m afraid I—’ He rose abruptly from his chair, without draining his glass. ‘I fear we are neglecting the ladies. Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, gentlemen?’

Hugo allowed all his companions to move out ahead of him, so that he would be the last to mount the stairs.

Emma was deep in conversation with Mr Mountjoy when Hugo gained the drawing room. As house-guests of the Rector, the young man and his sister had had to be invited, even though they were not close friends of the Fitzwilliams. Hugo could see that the brother appeared to be much taken with Emma—for, although he was conversing with animation, his eyes held the slightly dazed look that tended to afflict very young men on first meeting a ravishing beauty. Hugo himself had been the same—a lifetime ago.

Miss Mountjoy rose from the pianoforte and crossed the room to join her brother. ‘Oh, Miss Fitzwilliam,’ she began impulsively, ‘this is such a lovely room—just made for dancing. Might we not make up a set? It would be such fun.’

For a moment, Emma seemed to be at a loss for words. Hugo thought he could see the beginnings of a flush on her neck.

Mr Mountjoy beamed at his sister’s suggestion. ‘Why, that would be wholly delightful,’ he said. ‘I should be honoured if you would consent to partner me, ma’am.’

Emma’s flush was mounting. Hugo wondered how she would respond to her young guests’ highly improper proposal without embarrassing them. Lady Hardinge could not dance, given her condition. The Rector’s wife and Mrs Halliday would probably view such an impromptu affair with stern misgivings. That left only Miss Mountjoy herself—and Emma.

‘Well…’ began Emma doubtfully.

Lady Hardinge intervened. ‘I’m afraid I am not able to dance myself,’ she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ‘but I would gladly play for those who can.’

That settled it, for no one would gainsay the Countess. Hugo saw that Emma was both relieved and sorry. However, she said nothing more on the question, merely turning her attention to ensuring the servants set about rolling back the Turkey carpet.

Hugo tried to avoid Miss Mountjoy’s hopeful glances. In spite of her youth—and his disfigurement—she had clearly marked him down as the only bachelor in the room. She was pretty enough, but incredibly gauche—seemingly she did not begin to grasp that country dances were quite beyond Hugo’s capabilities at present.

Richard came again to the rescue. ‘My wife may have excused herself from dancing,’ he said brightly, ‘but that is no reason why I should deny myself the pleasure. Will you honour me, Miss Mountjoy?’

The sudden glow on the girl’s features suggested that she had never before been led into the dance by a peer of the realm.

Two couples looking somewhat sparse, Sir Edward offered his hand to his old friend, Mrs Halliday. Then Lady Hardinge struck up the opening chord and, in no time, the set was forming and re-forming.

Hugo crossed to the instrument to offer to turn for her ladyship.

As he bent forward, she said softly, ‘I hope you will forgive me, Major—but Miss Mountjoy does not really know how to go on. She is so very young…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘So young that you stepped in to save her blushes—as Richard saved mine,’ said Hugo warmly. ‘You are, both of you, most thoughtful, ma’am. Miss Mountjoy may be too unschooled in the ways of the world to collect what was done for her, but I certainly am not. Thank you.’

‘Major Stratton—now you attempt to put me to the blush,’ said Lady Hardinge with mock severity, ‘besides distracting me from my task. Emma will upbraid me roundly if I fail to keep time.’

Hugo smiled down at her, even though she was looking at her music rather than at him. Her playing was expert—not a note out of place. He was lucky to have such friends.

At the end of the set, Miss Mountjoy came rushing back to the pair at the pianoforte. ‘Oh, Lady Hardinge, that was such fun. Thank you so much. You played quite beautifully.’

Her brother appeared at her elbow, echoing her thanks. ‘Could you be persuaded to just one more set, ma’am?’ he continued. ‘This is terrifically good sport.’

Lady Hardinge nodded and began to leaf through the music on the instrument.

Mr Mountjoy was clearly remembering his manners, at last. ‘But I must not monopolise our hostess,’ he said, looking towards Emma and then back to Hugo. ‘If you wish to stand up with one of the ladies, sir, I should gladly take over your duty here.’

Hugo swallowed the biting snub that rose temptingly to his lips. The young puppy meant well enough. And his sister was still looking hopeful, unfortunately. ‘Thank you, but no,’ Hugo said. ‘I do not dance this evening.’

Mr Mountjoy bowed and withdrew, looking relieved.

Lady Hardinge, having selected her music, was about to begin to play once more. ‘Major,’ she said in an undertone, ‘I really do not need a page-turner, you know.’

Hugo laughed quietly. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I shall take that as my congé,’ he said. With a polite bow, he made his way to the door as quickly as he could without drawing attention to his departure. He would go down to the terrace, just for a quarter of an hour or so, to smoke a cigar in private. All the ladies were occupied. He would not be missed.

Emma was not best pleased to be dancing a second set with Mr Mountjoy. She told herself it was because a hostess should not allow herself to be monopolised by a single guest—but out of the corner of her eye, she found she was watching Hugo’s every move. She felt very proud of him—even though she knew she had no right to be, for she was nothing to him, not even a friend. She had feared he would snub silly Miss Mountjoy—or her equally silly brother—but he had shown remarkable restraint. Probably he had been used to dealing with rash young subalterns during his army days and knew just how thin-skinned they could be.

Noticing Hugo slip out of the room, Emma remembered that he, too, was thin-skinned. It was not surprising that he wanted to escape from the Mountjoys and the dancing. Emma wondered, while she mechanically executed the steps of the figure, whether Hugo had liked to dance before his injury. All the more distressing for him, if it were so. Poor Hugo.

No, not ‘poor Hugo’. She was beginning to feel sorry for him—as he was feeling sorry for himself. But it was wrong to encourage him to withdraw even further into his shell. No matter how dreadful his injuries, he should not hide from the world. No true friend would permit him to do so. It was already obvious that he was making some progress; he climbed the stairs much more easily than before. Surely he could learn to ride again—and to drive and to shoot—if he were but prepared to make the effort? Emma resolved to enlist Richard’s help in making Hugo face up to the future. Between them they could help Hugo to become more like the man he had been. Why—he might even be able to dance again, one day.

At that moment, Emma thought she heard the sound of the front door being opened. Hugo could not be leaving, surely? He would not be so impolite. And besides, he could not leave without Jamie and Richard. No. Someone else must have called.

Emma gratefully excused herself to Mr Mountjoy and hurried out on to the landing to see what was happening. Looking over the balusters, she saw that a complete stranger had been admitted. A tall dark man was lounging carelessly against the delicate spindle-legged table in the hallway and lazily twirling an ivory-handled quizzing glass. On his face was an expression of acute boredom.

But he was, without doubt, the most beautiful specimen of manhood that Emma had ever beheld.

Emma stood transfixed on the landing, unable to tear her eyes away from the gentleman’s finely chiselled features. Then, from the vicinity of her father’s study, she heard Hugo’s voice exclaim in surprise, ‘Kit! What on earth are you doing here?’

The newcomer raised a mocking eyebrow, but did not move an inch from where he stood. ‘Why, waiting for someone to relieve me of my coat,’ he replied in an affected drawl. ‘What else did you think I might be doing, brother?’

Chapter Five

Emma was still standing as if frozen when her father—probably alerted by her hurried departure from the dance—appeared at her side. He took one look into the hallway below and rushed down the stairs as fast as his bulk and his tight satin breeches would allow.

Sir Edward strode across to the newcomer, hand outstretched. ‘Welcome, my boy, welcome,’ he boomed, clapping the new arrival on the shoulder. ‘What brings you here at this hour? Something important, I’ll be bound.’ Without giving anyone a chance to reply, Sir Edward turned in the direction of the servants’ door. ‘Godfrey! Where the devil are you, man? Do you not know we have guests?’

The butler materialised almost immediately on the landing behind Emma and glided down the staircase with no appearance of haste or of concern. He bowed politely to the visitor. ‘May I take your coat, sir?’

Emma watched in trancelike immobility as the newcomer allowed himself to be relieved of his caped driving coat and curly-brimmed beaver. He had smiled at Sir Edward’s greeting, but the expression of lazy disdain had returned to his handsome face a moment later. It seemed he was too bored to speak—or even to look around him.

Sir Edward did not appear to have noticed anything amiss. ‘I am sure you’d like a private word with your brother,’ he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Hugo who was standing motionless in the shadow of the gallery, leaning on his cane. ‘But I hope you will join us upstairs when you’re done. We are entertaining a few friends—quite informally, you understand—and the young people are dancing. My Emma would—’ He broke off, looking round suddenly. The butler had disappeared as quietly as he had come. ‘Where on earth is she?’ he said in a burst of irritation.

From her vantage point above them, Emma stirred at last. ‘I am here, Papa,’ she said, trying vainly to tear her eyes from Hugo’s incredible brother.

Three heads turned. Three pairs of eyes looked up at her. The brothers were remarkably alike, even though they did not have the same degree of beauty. Nor did they share the same colouring, Emma noted absently. The younger man’s hair was lighter—dark brown, highlighted with glints of red, like finest rosewood. His clear blue eyes were skimming over the female figure above him, making a rapid assessment of her face and form. Emma felt herself beginning to flush under his all too obvious scrutiny. His faintly lifted eyebrow and curling lip did nothing to reduce her embarrassment. She was behaving like a chit just out of the schoolroom, both thunderstruck and tongue-tied at the sight of a handsome male face.

She tossed her head in annoyance. The spell broke. This young man was too well aware of his effect on hapless females, Emma concluded with sudden insight. Let others fall at his elegantly shod feet. She most certainly would not.

Lifting the hem of her cream silk gown with one hand, she laid the other on the polished banister rail and moved serenely down the staircase into the hallway. She knew the newcomer’s eyes would fix on that tantalising glimpse of a shapely ankle. And she made a play of dropping her skirts and straightening them demurely before she looked at him. Women, too, could use the tricks of flirtation, she reckoned. She doubted that young Stratton could be more adept than she at the arts of allure.

A movement behind her reminded Emma that they were not alone. There was the click of a cane on the chequered marble before Hugo’s voice said politely, ‘Miss Fitzwilliam, you will allow me to present my youngest brother, Christopher—usually known as Kit.’

Kit took a small step forward so that he could take Emma’s hand. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss it—that would have been totally in character, she decided uncharitably—but he did not. He simply bowed gracefully and relinquished her hand. There was nothing to cavil at in his company manners. He would be the perfect gentleman—were it not for that calculating look in his eye.

‘Your servant, Miss Fitzwilliam,’ Kit said.

Emma dropped the tiniest curtsy, but did not bow her head by as much as an inch. ‘I am delighted to welcome any relative of Major Stratton’s,’ she said with a polite smile. ‘You already know my father, I take it?’

‘Indeed, I do,’ replied Kit. ‘We have had—’

‘Belong to the same clubs, m’dear,’ broke in Sir Edward quickly. ‘Had one or two encounters over the card table. Young Stratton here seems to have the devil’s own luck—playing against me, at least.’ Sir Edward laughed good-naturedly. He loved to gamble, Emma knew. And he could afford to lose. But what of Kit Stratton? Could he?

‘Where are you staying, Kit? You can’t mean to drive on again tonight.’ Hugo was smiling indulgently at his younger brother.

Kit smiled back with genuine warmth. ‘Don’t worry, brother. I shan’t be importuning the Hardinges. Arranged to rack up at the White Hart. Got to make an early start in the morning. Things to do, you know.’

The corner of Hugo’s mouth quirked in sudden irony but he said only, ‘I see. London calls, no doubt. And the urgent business that brings you here in the middle of the night?’

Emma made to move back towards the stairs. She had no desire to eavesdrop on Hugo’s family affairs. Her father was obviously of a similar mind, opening the door of his study so that the two guests might converse in private.

Kit still did not move an inch. ‘Oh, it’s nothing so drastic, Hugo. John asked me to let you know that they’re off travelling again—Scotland, this time, I think he said—so the house at Stratton Magna will be shut up for a few months. He didn’t want you arriving to find you’d been abandoned. Knows you find travelling difficult.’ Kit cast a surreptitious glance at Hugo’s weak leg and then quickly looked away.

‘Good of him,’ Hugo said curtly. ‘But he could as easily have written, you know. A crippled leg doesn’t affect my ability to read.’

Kit grinned like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Oh, very well. If you must know, I offered to come. Wanted to see for myself how you were. Should have known you’d be just as cantankerous as ever.’

Hugo cast his eyes up to the heavens for a second and then turned to Sir Edward. ‘It is not surprising if I am, sir. John and I have tried every avenue we could think of over the last few years, but nothing can tame this scapegrace brother of ours. Gambling, drinking—’ He stopped abruptly. Such matters should not be mentioned in front of young unmarried ladies.

Emma broke the taut silence by saying politely, ‘Will you come and meet our other guests, Mr Stratton? There will be refreshments upstairs, too—if you can spare the time, of course.’

Hugo stifled a laugh. ‘I’m sure he can, ma’am, no matter how early his call to London. He never did seem to need much sleep.’

Kit cast a quelling look at his brother, but it produced no response at all, Emma noticed. Hugo was really very good indeed at dealing with provoking young men.

Emma re-entered the drawing room a little behind Kit and her father. She knew that Hugo would hate her to watch his slow progress on the stairs. And yet, she lingered by the door. She was not needed immediately. Her father would make the necessary introductions.

A soft gasp, quickly swallowed, made her turn back to the drawing room. Miss Mountjoy’s eyes were as round as guineas as she gazed at the new arrival. Her mouth hung partly open. Emma suppressed a desire to take the girl by the shoulders and shake her. No wonder Kit Stratton had such a disdainful view of womankind if this was the reaction he had learned to expect.

Emma did not wait to witness the introductions. It was all too embarrassing. She moved instead to meet Hugo who had just regained the landing.

‘Your brother has certainly made an impression,’ she said somewhat tartly.

‘It is to be expected,’ said Hugo in a flat voice. ‘Kit has the happy knack of being welcomed wherever he goes.’

Emma thought Hugo was about to say something more, but he did not. She wondered what was hidden behind his apparently simple words. He had called his brother a ‘scapegrace’, after all. Was there something to be ashamed of about this beautiful—and undoubtedly somewhat arrogant—young man? She would have to find that out for herself. Of a certainty, Hugo would not tell her.

‘I was just about to order the supper brought in, Major. I am sure your brother would welcome some refreshments after his travels. And you, too, perhaps?’

‘You are most kind, ma’am,’ replied Hugo, stopping in the doorway. Emma, too, paused to survey the scene. Jamie was seated at the instrument once more, choosing her music. Kit Stratton was leading a blushing Miss Mountjoy on to the floor. Emma was relieved to see that Mr Mountjoy was partnering the Rector’s wife. If the young man had been forward enough to ask Emma to dance a third time, she would have been forced to snub him. That would have given her no pleasure at all.

The Rector came to claim Emma and lead her into the set. Her father looked on, smiling benignly. He liked nothing better than to see his guests enjoying themselves—even if it was a little improper for them to be dancing in this way.

Hugo crossed to the pianoforte once more. ‘May I turn for you, Lady Hardinge?’ he asked quietly.

‘If you wish,’ she replied. ‘Your brother’s arrival was unexpected, I collect? I hope he has not brought bad news?’

‘Have no fears on that score, ma’am. It’s only Kit’s insatiable curiosity. He always has to know everything about John and me. A problem of being so much younger, I think. He always wanted to do whatever we could do, and long before he was old enough. He’s a born rebel, I’m afraid. He was sent down from Oxford because of it. And, of course, he was much indulged, being the child of my parents’ old age—besides having the face of an angel.’

Hugo smiled wryly, fearing for a moment that he might have said too much. But the Hardinges, of all people, were to be trusted. He bent to turn the page of music and received a brief nod of thanks. ‘I would not have you think unkindly of Kit, ma’am,’ he continued earnestly. ‘He is a little wild, I admit, but he has a good heart under that splendid exterior. It is only a pity that the ladies cannot see beyond the handsome face.’ And that he trades on it with so little compunction, Hugo added to himself. In spite of Kit’s comparative youth, he had left a string of broken hearts behind him—never mind the discarded mistresses. Every one of them had thought she would reform him. And every one had failed.

Hugo raised his eyes to watch the dancing. Miss Mountjoy was gazing up at Kit as if she had never beheld anything so beautiful. Hugo shuddered inwardly. Yet another impressionable female…

Emma, now…Emma was clearly made of sterner stuff. Hugo assessed her carefully. Her attention was firmly focused on her conversation with her partner. She was sparing not a single glance for Kit. And earlier, in the entrance hall, she had seemed to have the measure of him. Perhaps…

At that moment, the dance brought Emma round to face Hugo and she looked directly at him. She smiled, fleetingly, before turning back to her partner.

Entranced, Hugo watched her retreating back move down the set. He could see that Kit was watching her closely, too. But Emma was studiously ignoring Kit Stratton. Excellent tactics on her part.

Kit had broken altogether too many hearts, in Hugo’s opinion. It would do him the world of good to fall in love a little, especially if his love were not returned in equal measure. Hugo had little experience of Society ladies—he had spent too many years with the army—yet it seemed to him that Emma was just the kind of woman to give Kit the lesson he needed…if she once decided to take any notice of him at all. But why should she?

Hugo allowed himself a little smile. It would not be so surprising, surely, in the down-to-earth world of ton matches? Emma, as an heiress, was in need of a husband. Kit was a very attractive man—and better husband material than many a suitor. He might be a scapegrace… No, that was not quite true. Hugo had to admit to himself that, at twenty-two, Kit was already a fair way to becoming an out-and-out rake—though without as much wealth as he would have wished to fund his spendthrift habits. A good marriage might be the making of him. And what woman could resist the challenge of reforming a rake?

Hugo turned back to the music, feeling suddenly guilty. How quickly his mind had moved from love to marriage. It was not his place to arrange Emma’s future, even to help tame his incorrigible brother. Kit was still very young, younger than Emma. Flirtation might provide a useful lesson—but marriage would be a disaster. He should not interfere. Let the young people make their own decisions.

A sudden burst of laughter from Kit drew everyone’s attention. Most of the dancers were soon laughing heartily, too. Miss Mountjoy looked a trifle embarrassed though she, too, joined in eventually. Emma, however, was looking daggers at Kit.

In that instant, Hugo realised that Emma was aeons older than his frivolous young brother. They would never suit—not for a moment.

A wicked thought arose unbidden. Poor Kit—her wealth would at least have kept him out of the sponging house.

Chapter Six

‘You sent for me, Papa?’ Emma shut the study door quietly behind her.

Her father rose from his favourite chair, smiling determinedly. He carried a letter in his hand. ‘Emma, my dear, how well you look this morning,’ he said, admiring the picture she made in her simple sprig-muslin gown. ‘No after-effects from last night’s entertaining?’

Emma returned his smile. ‘No, indeed, Papa. It was most enjoyable. And I am used to dance till dawn when I am in London, you know. Country parties—even our own—are much tamer affairs.’

He pulled at his ear lobe. ‘Ah…that was what I wanted to talk to you about, m’dear. Your Aunt Augusta has written.’ He waved his letter in Emma’s direction. ‘She thinks you should return to London. Says you are missing too much of the Season. That, at your age, you—’

Emma was relieved to learn that the letter contained nothing worse. Her father’s widowed sister was a busybody of the first order. Having no children of her own, she did her best to arrange Emma’s life instead. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you, Papa, but I’ll wager I can quote my aunt’s letter word for word. At my age,’ she began, mimicking Mrs Warenne’s very proper voice, ‘I am like to be left on the shelf if I do not bestir myself to attend every single rout party. New gentleman are constantly appearing in town and it is so important to make an impression on them at the very first opportunity.’ She looked up at her father’s face through her long dark lashes. His hand had left his ear and he was trying not to laugh. ‘Do I have it right, Papa?’

‘Yes—well, it is much along those lines, I admit. But—’ he was suddenly serious once more ‘—Emma, your aunt is only being sensible. You are twenty-three years old and still unmarried.’ He must have detected hurt in Emma’s eyes, for he hastened to say, ‘Oh, I was more than happy to send all those fortune hunters to the rightabout. Not one of them valued you as he ought. But… My dear, I am concerned about your future. I am not as young as I was, you know, and when I am gone, you will be alone here.’

Emma’s eyes widened as she took in the import of his words. He shook his head a fraction to forestall the protest that had sprung to her lips. ‘I would so much like to see you happily settled, Emma. As would your aunt. And, however much you love the country, my dear, even you have to admit that it is not exactly awash with potential suitors.’ He looked sadly down at her, counting off the names on the fingers of his left hand. ‘Richard is married. Kit Stratton is a reckless young ne’er-do-well with much too fine a face. And Mountjoy is barely out of leading strings. Apart from the old widowers—who are not for you, I sincerely hope—no other eligible man has put in an appearance in this neighbourhood for years. So…much as you may prefer the country, m’dear, I’m afraid it has to be London.’

Emma was silent for several heartbeats. Then, in a very small voice, quite unlike her usual confident tones, she ventured, ‘You did not include Major Stratton in your list, Papa.’

Her father’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘No, of course I did not,’ he said brusquely. ‘The Major may be a very fine man. A hero, too, perhaps, I dare say. But he is not…’ He put a heavy hand on his daughter’s arm and warned sharply, ‘Emma, he is scarred and crippled. He may not even be a whole man.’ He reddened slightly as he realised what he had said in front of his unmarried daughter, but he was clearly too angry and too concerned to stop. ‘He is no fit husband for you, Emma—nor for any other young lady. You must not give him another thought. Indeed, I doubt he is marriageable at all. It is a pity, I admit, but there is nothing to be done.’

Emma was staring at her slippers, trying to make sense of the tumbling, whirling thoughts that her father’s words had provoked. She wanted to reestablish her easy friendship with Hugo Stratton, that was all. She had never thought of him as a husband. At least…when she was a child…but those were only a child’s romantic daydreams and long ago forgotten. Besides, the man who had returned from the wars was nothing like the fantasy she had fashioned in the schoolroom. Nothing like. With a flash of insight, Emma now saw that Hugo believed himself to be unfit for marriage. He would never propose to any woman of his own free will.

She swallowed hard. Her father must be right. He had her best interests at heart, as always.

She was about to say that she would do as he asked, when another picture of Hugo rose in her mind, a picture so vivid that he might have been before her—Hugo’s laughing eyes as they had once been. Could they not be so again? There had been a moment during that walk in the wood at Harding when he had been so close to his former self… Must he remain a bitter recluse just because he had been wounded in the service of his country? It seemed so very unfair.

‘Emma?’ Her father was now beginning to sound more impatient than angry.

Emma smiled sweetly up at him, waiting until the last remnants of his anger had melted away. ‘No doubt Aunt Augusta is right, Papa. London in the Season is the place for suitors—and fortune hunters, too, alas. I will go back and join the throng. Will that content you, Papa?’

‘Aye,’ he smiled. ‘You were ever a sensible lass, Emma. You know it is for the best.’ He sounded relieved.

Emma’s smile dimmed. ‘Oh, Papa—but what about the Derby? You said you planned to go. But if I am in London with Aunt Augusta… Surely you would not deny me the chance to see Golden Star run? You always said you named him for me.’ Her face was set in a picture of childlike innocence as she gazed hopefully up at him.

He plucked at his ear. ‘Well…’ he said, looking again at the letter in his hand. ‘I suppose it might be possible to make up a party, if your aunt agreed. I’d have to take a house nearby, of course. Too far to go otherwise. Might be a goodish notion, though,’ he mused abstractedly. ‘We could all see the race then. And your Aunt Augusta could ensure that a few eligible young people were invited to join us at the same time.’

Emma groaned inwardly at the thought of a houseful of young ladies, all carefully schooled by their matchmaking mamas, and Aunt Augusta’s choice of eligible gentlemen. But, at least, it would be a change from the interminable London round. After so many full Seasons, that was beginning to pall.

Her papa seemed to have convinced himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll write to your aunt today. And I may tell her that you will be returning to London immediately, Emma?’ His raised eyebrows demanded a precise answer.

‘In a day or two, Papa,’ Emma said. ‘I should like to spend a little time with Jamie before I go.’ Her eyes lit up with sudden mischief. ‘If I try really hard, I might even persuade her to join your Surrey house party, Papa. Would that not be delightful? It was so clever of you to think of it.’

Papa—who had a very soft spot for the lovely Countess—agreed that his daughter might remain in the country for a few days more, in hopes of adding the Hardinges to his guest list.

Emma kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Papa,’ she beamed. ‘I had better ride over to Harding at once to begin to work on her, do you not think? And, before you mention it, I will take a groom. I am resolved to prevent you from worrying about me any more.’

Sir Edward sighed contentedly and patted her arm. ‘Thank you, m’dear. You are a good girl.’

Emma left the room before he could remember that any visit to Harding must provide yet another opportunity to meet the unmarriageable Major.

‘Good morning, Miss Emma.’ The butler beamed at her. ‘You will be pleased to know that my lord has driven over to the Dower House to visit his lady mother.’

Emma’s spirits lifted at the news. The Dowager Countess had been almost like a mother to Emma for as long as she could remember. Emma resolved to ride on to the Dower House as soon as she left Jamie. It would be a happy duty to welcome Richard’s mother back home.

‘That is splendid news, Digby,’ Emma said. ‘I will go to pay my respects to her ladyship this very day.’ She picked up her trailing skirts, turning to make for the stairs and Jamie’s sitting room.

Behind her, Digby coughed discreetly. ‘I believe her ladyship is in the conservatory, Miss Emma.’

‘Oh.’ Emma turned quickly on her heel. ‘Yes, of course. It is such a lovely spot when the sun is shining. Don’t trouble to announce me, Digby. I know my way very well.’

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