Mary Brendan - The Wanton Bride

‘Mr Bond is here, ma’am.’ Millie had slipped into the room to announce they had a visitor.

Penelope frowned—it was hardly yet the hour to be receiving callers. She gave her daughter a quizzical look.

‘I expect he has come to apologise for his grandmother’s blunt manner.’ Emily gestured that she had no objection to seeing him.

‘We will receive him in the parlour, Millie,’ Penelope told the young maidservant.

Once in the parlour, and in the company of their diffident guest, Mrs Beaumont proceeded to pour tea while Emily and Mr Bond made polite observations on the vagaries of spring weather. Stephen was handed his cup and saucer and accepted the invitation to sit down whereupon, without preamble, he set about doing his duty.

‘I must apologise for calling on you so early but I wasn’t sure…that is to say…’ His eyes darted between the two ladies as though searching for assistance. He cleared his throat and blurted, ‘I wanted to again thank you for such fine hospitality yesterday and to make sure that you had not…been perturbed by my grandmother’s blunt manner.’

Stephen glanced at Penelope Beaumont. Something in her expression caused him to quickly add, ‘My grandmother does not intend to upset people, but she can be rather too outspoken.’ He took a gulp from his tea, then clattered the cup down to rest.

‘Does she not understand that being too outspoken is likely to upset people?’ Penelope asked stiffly.

Stephen coloured and coughed. ‘I don’t think she does, ma’am. But if you thought any of her remarks offensive I will, of course, unreservedly apologise on her behalf.’

Emily put her tea down on a side table and kindly said, ‘I thought your grandmama was quite a character. I enjoyed meeting her.’ Emily’s smile turned wry as Stephen looked most surprised to hear that. ‘If Mrs Bond is not soon returning to Bath, you must introduce her to Mrs Pearson.’ Emily sent her mother a twinkling look. ‘Do you not think, Mama, that Violet Pearson might benefit from an acquaintance with Stephen’s grandmother?’

Finally that morning Emily had drawn a twitch of amusement from her mother.

‘Do take another cup, Mr Bond,’ Penelope urged amiably and advanced with the pot.

Emily checked the wall clock and stood up. She needed to be on her way if she was to keep her appointment. ‘I’m going out shopping, but do stay and finish tea,’ she added as Stephen leaped to his feet.

‘I’ll gladly give you a ride,’ Stephen volunteered eagerly, raking his fingers through his springy blond curls. ‘Actually I ought to be getting along too. I have an appointment in Holborn.’

‘I accept your kind offer, in that case,’ Emily said.

Despite his noticeably wonky nose, it was not the fellow’s looks that drew Emily’s attention, but his manner. He had the demeanour of a person oblivious to the fact that he was under observation. Back and forth he strutted beneath the brass balls of the pawnbroker’s shop, every so often peering at the passing carts with obvious disappointment. Then, a few yards away, a hackney cab pulled up at the kerb. That sent the fellow darting into the shop doorway, only to reappear a moment later when a stout gentleman alighted from the vehicle and purposefully bowled off up the street.

Emily guessed he had been expecting to catch sight of her before she noticed him. Doubtless he imagined she would arrive at the pawnbroker’s in a vehicle rather than on foot. But Emily had not wanted to be quizzed by Stephen over why she was to be set down in an area so lacking fashionable shops. Instead, she had asked him to deliver her to a salubrious part of town that was within easy striking distance of Whiting Street. Having first declined Stephen’s offer to meet her later to take her home, she had then watched his rig turn the corner before briskly walking east.

It was a fine spring morning, but chilly gusts of wind made her keep her cloak pulled tight about her. She again sent a discreet look across Whiting Street at the fellow she was sure had sent her the note.

Although his burly figure didn’t intimidate her, she did feel nervous. This was an area generally populated by gentlemen. They came to these premises to meet their men of business and pore over contracts and unintelligible papers. A lone female loitering about was likely to incite curiosity. Emily knew that her own papa often had assignments on this street with his attorney. Fervently she prayed that he had not arranged a meeting with Mr Pritchard today.

‘Emily? Emily Beaumont?’

That cultured voice, once so well known to her, made Emily freeze, then pivot slowly about.

Viscount Devlin had been about to get into a crested carriage, but now he hesitated and sauntered, with much use of his ebony cane, along the pavement towards her.

Emily had wondered how she would feel if ever she and this man were to meet, alone. Of course, since the end of their betrothal many years ago, they had met socially. But that had been in polite company when they both were mindful of etiquette and speculative stares.

Notwithstanding the fact that Emily knew the love of her life was now a husband and prospective father—for she had heard that his wife was increasing before Augusta mentioned it—she wondered if the Viscount’s roguish charm would still impress her. The closer he came, the more she feared the potency of his attraction. He was still youthfully good looking and could have passed for a man half a decade younger than his thirty-one years. His fair hair was artfully dishevelled and his hazel eyes warm as they settled on her face.

‘Are you waiting for your father?’ he asked, surprise leavening his tone, as he took a glance along the street. Emily imagined he expected to spy Mr Beaumont emerging from a nearby portal.

‘No…I’m not,’ Emily answered too quickly and truthfully. She sought for an excuse for her odd presence on Whiting Street. But she need not have worried over any further interrogation from the Viscount—he now seemed distracted by her small tongue as it trailed moisture over her full pink lips.

Emily felt her heart begin to race beneath his languid appraisal. The heat smouldering in his eyes brought instantly to mind images of things they had done together that she thought she had buried deep in her past. A burst of knowledge brought with it a guilty exhilaration: Viscount Devlin still desired her.

‘When was it that last we met?’ the Viscount asked huskily, his tawny eyes moving to her body. ‘It must have been a year ago. I swear that every time I see you, Emily, you have grown more lovely.’

Emily sensed her heart increase tempo, but flashed him a cool look from silver eyes. ‘And I swear, sir, that I think you must be still recovering from a night of roistering to say such a thing to me.’

‘Can I not compliment you?’ he asked gravely. ‘Why are you so prickly, Emily? Has the hurt not yet healed?’

Emily blinked. Part of her wanted to laugh scornfully at his terribly inappropriate remarks, but there was also a shameful part of her that would rather listen to more of his flattery. Mentally she shook herself and took a step away. He might tell her she was lovely, and look at her as though he wanted to kiss her, but her memory was not so short. A few years ago, after Tarquin had thrashed him, there had been nothing but disgust and anger in his eyes when he saw any Beaumont, including her.

‘What you are referring to belongs to the past, sir,’ she said stiltedly, ‘and there is certainly nothing more to be said about it.’ She bobbed and made to whip past him, but a hand shot out, arresting her.

‘Don’t fly away, Emily,’ he softly pleaded. ‘I have long thought that there is more to be said. I have wanted to see you alone; have hoped we might meet by chance like this. I think of you often. I think of what might have been…’