Marrying The Major. Joanna Maitland

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