And her eyes were on Mr. Bradshaw, who had just arrived and was standing beside Mrs. Langtree’s table, talking with her. He looked very splendid dressed in silver knee breeches and black velvet coat with a very white neckcloth and white lace over his hands.
Mrs. Langtree would receive a valentine from him, doubtless. And surely she would accept if she knew from whom it came. He was by far the most handsome gentleman in Bath. How wonderful it would be, Emily thought, her mind drifting into a dream of herself in the ballroom, carrying some favor of his, waiting for him to come to claim it and her. He would come to dance with her, and he would smile that crinkle-eyed smile he had given her the day before—was it just yesterday? And he would tell her that he . . .
Emily was jolted back to reality when her eyes met Roger’s across the room and she realized both the direction of her thoughts and her ignorance of what was being said at her table.
“I shall hope to see you in the Pump Room in the morning,” Mr. Harris said, rising and bowing to all the ladies seated there. He looked directly at Emily and smiled.
Would he send her a valentine? she wondered. And suddenly she wished that the Master of Ceremonies had not had such an idea. For although it was marvelously romantic, it was also cruel to those women who would not receive even a single valentine. And how humiliating it would be to attend the ball if one had nothing from any gentleman to display. She resolved not to go under such circumstances, even if she had to feign a headache on the evening.
“Ah, Aunty,” a voice said from behind her shoulder. “I knew as soon as I saw that elegant turban across the room that it could belong to no one but you. Miss Richmond?”
“Impudent boy,” Lady Copeland said fondly. “Sit down, Roger, and have some tea. Let me present you to Mrs. Krebs and Mrs. Arnold.”
Roger did not anticipate that sipping tea and gossiping in the Upper Rooms would be a wonderfully exhilarating experience, but when in Bath, he had thought with amused resignation as he dressed carefully for the evening, one must do as the people of Bath did—drink tea.
Perhaps he would have avoided the entertainment had he not had a definite purpose in going. But he did. Without either word or sign, he and Eugenia Langtree had agreed to meet there.
He approached her table with a feeling of some selfmockery. His tastes did not normally run to women ten years his senior or to those of voluptuous charms. He preferred women of more subtle appeal. But if Bath was to be bearable for a few weeks, he needed some diversion—some long-lasting diversion. The pleasure of bedding this particular woman would have to be worked for. She knew the game as well as he and would not give herself for the asking. He would find amusement in the challenge.
“Do you plan to attend the Valentine’s Ball, sir?” she asked him after both of them had spoken only with the other gentlemen about her for a few minutes. Her voice was low and seductive. She glanced up at him provocatively from beneath darkened lashes.
“Only if I can feel persuaded that it will bring me some, ah, enjoyment, ma’am,” he said, returning look for look.
She smiled and turned her attention to another of her admirers. Never more than a hint at a time. The woman played the game well.
He would send her a valentine the next day. He glanced to the bare flesh above her bosom, where the gold rose still hung on its heavy chain. Yes, he could be content to play the game for nine days more. Then, though, he would expect some reward, some action.
He did not realize that his gaze had shifted to a table across the room until he found himself locking eyes with Emily Richmond. She lowered hers immediately.
Well, he had been wrong. She did not always wear gray, it seemed. That gown she was wearing was thoroughly virginal, with a neckline that ended in a small frill beneath her chin, and long, straight sleeves. And it certainly followed none of the current fashions that he was aware of. But the dull gold of its color, matched with the shining gold of her hair, made her look rather like an angel. A pale angel.
He felt a certain breathlessness, looking at her. And yet again a regret. For he had not mistaken the matter. He was experienced enough with women to know that there would be no assailing the virtue of Miss Emily Richmond. She would give herself—or part of herself—on her wedding night, and not a moment sooner. And he had no interest in wedding nights.
He must pay his respects to his aunt, he thought as he strolled across the room. But after doing so he found himself with the unspeakable pleasure of sitting at a table with four women for the following ten minutes, making conversation with them—or with three of them, to be exact. Emily Richmond sat mute to the left of him. And to his astonishment, he found that he could not turn his head easily and include her in the conversation. He totally ignored her, just as if she had not been the main reason for his seating himself there.
He was behaving like a gauche schoolboy!
“Roger,” Lady Copeland said at the end of the ten minutes, “you may call my carriage, dear. It is time to go home.”
He jumped to his feet, glad to put an end to the evening. He was back five minutes later, offering to escort his aunt and Miss Richmond to the waiting carriage.
But confound his aunt, he thought two minutes after that. Did she know every single person in Bath? And must she pause to exchange pleasantries with every last one of them on her way out? She waved him and Emily on, declaring that she would be with them in just a moment.
He took the girl on his arm and escorted her outside. The cloak she had donned, he was satisfied to see, was gray. Her hand on his arm was as slim as the rest of her, her fingers long, her fingernails short and well-manicured.
And what the deuce was he to talk about with a virtuous girl he had tried to seduce just the day before?
“Have you lived all your life in the country?” he asked her abruptly. What a profound question!
She looked up at him with those eyes he had already conceded it possible to drown in.
“Yes,” she said, “every moment of it until one month ago, when I came here with Lady Copeland.”
“And were you sorry to leave your home?” he asked.
She thought for a moment, as if she considered her answer of some importance. The girl clearly was not used to the shallowness of polite conversation. “I think more sorry to realize that I have grown up than to leave home,” she said. “I am the eldest of eight children and it was time to step out on my own and make my own life. That was a little sad and a little frightening.”
“Was yours a happy home?” he asked.
