Page 49 of Vanquishing the Viscount

Emma tugged at his sleeve, her brown eyes large and serious. “You must go to her,” she said. “Once you’ve spoken to her and shown her your indifference, you’ll feel yourself again. If you avoid her, the gossips will hand the victory to Miss Carslake.”

He gazed down at Emma with increased respect. She was right. It was exactly what he needed to do.

“Mama was wise to send you to me,” he murmured, turning toward her. “No one else has your good sense. I’ll go after them straightaway, offer my congratulations, and engage them in conversation. And I won’t punch Cornwallis, I promise. Thank you,” he added, and forgetting they were in public, he took Emma by the shoulders and placed a deft kiss on the top of her head. Then he strode off in search of his erstwhile sweetheart.

He’d barely gone two paces when a familiar voice arrested his progress. Spinning around, he was amazed and delighted to see Charles Keane approaching. Emma, who’d just turned to go back to their group, nearly walked full tilt into him.

“Whoa!” exclaimed Charles, catching her by the elbows. “Great heavens! Do my eyes deceive me? Emma?”

James turned back to him, irked to hear his friend address her with so little formality.

“Charles,” he said, holding out his hand. “How splendid to see you. What are you doing here? I thought your family was in Brighton.”

Charles shook his hand genially, but his eyes kept flicking to Emma, who was busying herself with her fan.

“I’m here with Aunt Letitia—she’s taking the cure. But it’s such a bore. If you’re free in the next few days, I beg you to rescue me from the company of the elderly and infirm. A man needs to talk about robust things like politics, cards, and women.”

James quirked an eyebrow at his friend, then waved at their surroundings. “This doesn’t strike me as an Aunt Letitia sort of affair. I suspect you persuaded her to come, in which case, you ought to be with her right now, keeping her company.”

Charles was an entertaining companion, but selfish and prone to fits of temper. James felt a wash of relief that he’d removed Emma from Charles’s sphere of influence.

She must never go back to Figheldene Hall.

Charles pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, sir! I was just on an errand for Aunt Letitia, actually, but something distracted me. It looks to me as if you’ve abandoned Emma, so you’re a fine one to talk.”

“Miss d’Ibert is returning to our party. I have someone I wish to speak with. Belinda, in fact. So you understand that I must leave you.”

“You may entrust Emma to my capable hands,” Charles assured him. “We’ll catch up on the gossip while I return her to your party. Good luck with Miss Carslake. You never know, engagements can always be broken.”

Damn. Even though the Rossbury party was just twenty yards away, he felt uneasy leaving Emma with Charles. What her opinion was on the matter, he couldn’t tell, for she was fanning herself too vigorously for him to see her expression. But if he didn’t go now, Belinda and Cornwallis would be lost from view.

“I’ve no intention of breaking anyone’s engagement,” he said coolly. “Look after Miss d’Ibert, please, and give my regards to your aunt.”

Then he strode off in search of his quarry, determined to sort out his feelings for Belinda Carslake.

And for the dazzling young woman with glorious hazel eyes, who, somehow, had cracked the ice that imprisoned his heart.

Chapter Thirty

Emma’s first impression upon seeing Charles was guilt—although she couldn’t think why. In truth, she was finding it hard to think clearly, after James kissed her hair.

“Aren’t you pleased to see me, my dear?” Charles inquired, steering her away from the bandstand—but also away from the Rossburys’ supper box. The countess was deep in conversation with George, therefore no one noticed Emma’s abduction.

“Of course I’m pleased to see you, Charles. I just wish I’d known.” She’d much rather be with James—she couldn’t wait to find out what occurred with Miss Carslake.

Charles grinned. “Oh, but it’s so much more fun to surprise people.”

“You knew I was in Bath.” This was a statement, not an accusation. James had said he’d squared everything with the Keanes before giving her up to his mother’s care.

“I’d have written and told you,” Charles replied, “but I could hardly write to you in Great Pulteney Street, could I? Not right under the countess’s nose. Take it as an indication of my affection that I did not write. I didn’t want to endanger your newfound status.”

What affection? He was just a flirt—she’d be very surprised if he had any capacity for real love. “You could have written to me at my parents’ house,” she said irritatedly. “They would have passed the letter on.”

Why was she even arguing with him? It would have been nice to know how Willie and Mary were getting on, yes, but that wasn’t urgent. What she ought to do was just walk away and have nothing further to do with Mr. Charles Keane. But then he’d think she’d become too toplofty to acknowledge him, and she’d hate anyone to believe that of her.

“Your parents would have asked who it was from. Their heads may have been turned by the great bounty of the Rossburys, but not so much that they wouldn’t question a private letter in a strange hand arriving for their daughter. No, it was for the best—you can trust me on this.”

She wasn’t sure she trusted him, at all. “I understand. But I really mustn’t spend too long away from my party,” she replied.