The Wanton Bride. Mary Brendan

yoke and would make that abundantly clear to Tarquin as soon as she again got within earshot of the selfish wretch.

      ‘Have you ever received a marriage proposal, Miss Beaumont?’

      Emily focussed on the present and saw that Augusta Bond had her bright beady eyes on her.

      ‘Has any man asked you to marry him?’ the old lady insisted on knowing.

      Emily glanced at her mother’s hideously shocked expression. Stephen had ceased chewing in alarm and had one cheek bloated with food. Emily compressed her lips to suppress the giggle throbbing in her throat. She took a deep breath before replying calmly, ‘Indeed I have, Mrs Bond. I was engaged when I was twenty.’

      ‘Cry off, did he?’

      ‘Umm…no. I think I did, actually,’ Emily said and placed her napkin down on her plate.

      ‘Emily was betrothed to Viscount Devlin.’ Mrs Beaumont issued that information in a glacial tone.

      The old lady raised her lorgnette and peered at Emily with a glimmer of respect. ‘Managed to hook a title, did you? No chance of getting him back now he’s married to the Corbett chit. I hear she’s already increasing.’

      ‘I’ll see if the next course is ready,’ Penelope enunciated frigidly and surged up majestically from the table.

      Emily glanced at her father to see he was now very aware of the tension in the room. He was looking in concern at her as though fearing she was upset. She reassured him with a smile before sending a challenging look at Augusta.

      The old lady’s eyes narrowed behind the glass, but Emily had the oddest impression that, before she let fall her lorgnette, Augusta winked at her.

      Chapter Three

      ‘That woman is the rudest person I ever did meet!’

      Emily had barely managed to put a foot over the threshold of the morning room when that exclamation assaulted her ears. She had hoped that a good night’s sleep might dilute her mother’s ire, but it seemed as strong as ever.

      When their guests had left at ten of the clock last evening, Mrs Beaumont had needed several draughts of sherry and the ministrations of both her husband and daughter to calm her enough to get her to bed.

      ‘And her grandson is so…pleasant, so…inoffensive,’ Mrs Beaumont emphasised with a quivering finger. ‘Do you think it is her age? She looks to have reached her three score years and ten. Perhaps she is becoming a little confused.’

      ‘I think she knows exactly what she is about,’ Emily said with a light chuckle. ‘I imagine Mrs Bond likes to be shocking.’

      Penelope Beaumont clucked disgust at that. She pushed the jam pot towards her daughter as Emily sat down opposite her at the breakfast table.

      Emily commenced spreading blackberries on to her toast, saying, ‘Mrs Bond might be getting on in years, but she seemed to me to be in robust health and, in an odd way, I quite liked her.’

      When Penelope heard that, her chin sagged towards her bosom.

      ‘Oh, come, Mama, you must admit Augusta has a certain lively spirit, and she plays a mean hand of piquet. Papa lost a crown to her.’

      Penelope snapped together her lips. ‘And that compensates for her insults? How dare she speak so! You are a beauty in your prime.’

      ‘She said nothing that was not true.’ Emily took a fond glance at her mother from under long brunette lashes. Penelope had long harboured hopes that a knight in shining armour would carry her only daughter off to his Mayfair mansion and a life of untold luxury. Emily’s eyes shaded wistfully. The knave had tarried too long. Her mother was on the point of urging Emily to settle for Mr Bond and a villa in Putney. Emily pushed away her plate and wiped crumbs from her slender fingers. ‘You know I’m too old to successfully compete with the débutantes for a husband. And I do actually take after Papa’s side of the family. The miniature of Grandmama Beaumont could be my likeness.’

      ‘And what about Augusta’s appalling insensitive remarks about your aborted betrothal?’

      ‘She did not know of it, Mama, I’m sure. She simply asked if I had received any marriage proposals.’

      ‘I’ll wager she did know of it and was out to be provocative,’ Penelope snorted in muted outrage. ‘Dreadful woman! You might have again burst into tears over it all.’

      ‘I have not burst into tears over it all for a long while,’ Emily said softly. ‘And I promise I will never do so again. As for Augusta, I think she genuinely knew nothing about it. She lives in the country and the scandal was not so great.’ She paused before reciting, ‘When Tarquin Beaumont gave Viscount Devlin a beating, thereby ruining his sister’s chance of happiness with the Viscount, I imagine it got scant mention in Bath drawing rooms. The gossip in London lasted barely a week, thank heavens.’

      ‘It was only so soon forgot because that hussy Olivia Davidson ran off with her sister’s husband and set all the cats’ tongues wagging.’

      ‘And how grateful I was for poor Miss Davidson’s disgrace,’ Emily reminisced wryly. ‘I still feel a little guilty when I see Olivia’s sour face,’ she added.

      ‘It’s her own fault she’s ostracised by everyone, including her own kin. Silly fool should have known he’d slink home with his tail between his legs and it would all end in tears.’ Penelope flapped a hand. ‘Oh, enough about them! We were talking of your fiasco. I still say you acted too proud and too hasty, Emily. You should have married the Viscount, you know.’

      ‘Indeed?’ Emily gave a sour little laugh. ‘Nicholas had made it clear by then he regretted an association with our family. I had no intention of binding him to his word and having a husband who might grow to despise me.’

      Penelope waved that away, but her further arguments were immediately interrupted.

      ‘We have been through this before and I refuse to rake it all over again. It is done with.’ The grit in Emily’s tone was at odds with the easy smile she gave her mother. Gracefully she rose from the dining table and went to the window. ‘I am going out early today. Madame Joubert has some fine new silk…’

      ‘I’ll come too. I need some buttons—’

      ‘No.’ Emily realised she had declined the offer of her mother’s company far too abruptly. Penelope looked rather taken aback, so she hastened to say, ‘I was going to find something nice for your birthday. It won’t be a surprise if you come too.’

      Penelope flushed in pleasure and murmured, ‘Oh, I see…’

      Emily felt a little guilty at the excuse, though she had not told a lie. She would call in to the modiste’s on Regent Street and would find her mama something special for her birthday. Nevertheless, her real reason for going early abroad this morning was to keep her rendezvous on Whiting Street with the person who had sent the note. And she had certainly no intention of letting her mother in on that.

      Penelope Beaumont could become disproportionately agitated over a trifling upset. If a storm was about to break over Tarquin’s debts, it would be prudent to shield her from the worst of it for as long as possible.

      ‘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