hear her voice floating back, oddly distorted by the echoing space. “Have you had much experience on the stage, Mr. Livingston?”
Jane would never wink; it wasn’t her way. The look she cast Emma over her shoulder, however, might as well have been a wink. It had the same effect. As Miss Gwen stalked along behind her charge, Emma realized, with growing horror, exactly what her friend had done.
She had left Emma alone with Mr. Whittlesby.
On purpose.
And it wasn’t so they could discuss the masque.
It wasn’t fair, Emma thought passionately. She didn’t try to shove off her unwanted admirers on Jane or embarrass her friend by pointedly obvious efforts to throw her together with the object of her affections.
Of course, that was only because Jane was too circumspect to ever admit to having an object of affection. But the point still remained: Emma’s hands were clean, even if only by default.
Did Mr. Whittlesby realize? He would have to be an idiot not to.
An idiot…or a man in love. He was, Emma realized, not looking at her at all. He was still watching Jane, his eyes following her as she led Kort along the marble hall, as her hand gestured elegantly at this painting or that statue.
Of course he didn’t realize. Emma didn’t register for him at all, did she? At least, not that way.
The thought oughtn’t to be that lowering—she did only admire him for his breeches, after all—but it was. It clung to the back of her throat like lye, base and corrosive.
“She never told me,” he said, more to himself than Emma. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Perhaps she didn’t have the chance,” said Emma soothingly.
Whittlesby didn’t want to be soothed. He turned on her like the Grand Inquisitor. “Was it your idea that Miss Wooliston be in the masque?”
“No.” Emma realized she had sounded just as brusque as he had, and made a hasty effort at amends. It wouldn’t do to sound as though she hadn’t wanted Jane; she would never want anyone to think that. “Hortense suggested it—Madame Bonaparte, that is. She was to play the lead but now that— Let’s just say that circumstances have rendered it unlikely. She might still, though.”
Oh, good. Now she didn’t sound brusque. She just sounded like the village idiot.
Mustering her wits, she said, “Either way, I’m sure it will go splendidly. How can it not with my imagination and your pen? Everyone will be shouting for encores!”
She looked expectantly at him, but Mr. Whittlesby was not inclined to match her cheerful tone. “How long have you known?”
“Since Friday.”
“
“I should have thought you would be glad to have Miss Wooliston in our cast,” said Emma, nettled past tact. “It will save you the bother of following her from place to place.”
Well, that got his attention. But not in a good way. From the look he gave her, one would have thought he had just caught her going through his jacket pockets. If he ever wore a jacket, that is. The billowy linen shirt left little to the imagination.
Emma colored. That was always the problem with fair skin—the slightest hint of embarrassment and there it came, out like a rash. But, really, there was no reason to be made to feel as though she were somehow rooting about in his private affairs. He had made his feelings for Jane entirely public.
Twenty-two cantos of public.
“You’re never going to win her that way,” said Emma officiously.
Whittlesby’s face was a study in outrage. “I beg your pardon?”
“You ought,” said Emma frankly. “All those cantos, all those readings, and all of them for nothing! It’s been very tedious.”
“No one asked you to subject yourself to my work,” said Whittlesby loftily. “They were not intended for you.”
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” said Emma. “I don’t mean to malign your poetry. It’s simply that as a technique for courtship, it leaves something to be desired. I know they say poetry is the way to a woman’s heart, but it didn’t work for Petrarch, either.”
“Has it occurred to you, madam, that I might write verse for the sake of verse? That the creation of poetry might in itself be the object of desire rather than the fallible human form that inspires it?”
Yes, but Jane had a very lovely form, and she had several years yet before it started to be fallible. Oh, the joys of being twenty-two and in little need of corsets!
“That is nicely said,” said Emma approvingly. “For your sake, I hope it’s true.”
“My intentions,” Whittlesby said with dignity, “are as pure as my poetry.”
“It isn’t your intentions that are the problem, but your methods. Twenty-two cantos? There are far better ways to get a lady’s attention.”
“Are you offering to play Cyrano?” There was a decidedly dangerous glint in Mr. Whittlesby’s eye. “Don’t confuse me with your Mr. Marston. Not all men are in his mold.”
“You mean, direct?” Emma wasn’t quite sure why she was defending Marston, other than that, at this particular moment, she would have negated anything Whittlesby said, up to and including green being the color of grass and the sky being up rather than down.
“Direct,” Whittlesby repeated. “That’s one way of putting it. Direct to your door?”
Emma flushed. “At least he made clear what he wanted.”
Whittlesby’s eyes narrowed on her face, taking on a speculative expression. “And what might that be?”
“Didn’t you know?” said Emma, with a forced laugh. “My diamonds. Pity for him they’re paste.”
She didn’t want to talk about Marston with Augustus Whittlesby. She didn’t want to talk about Marston at all.
Behind Whittlesby’s shoulder, a young man was hovering, dressed richly in a deep green jacket with a waistcoat in stripes of pink and green.
“Oh, look,” she babbled, waving enthusiastically, “there’s dear Monsieur—”
What was his name? There had been so many people come to Paris recently, so many members of the old aristocratic families returned from exile in England and elsewhere. It was impossible to keep them all straight.
“De Lilly?” Whittlesby frowned over his shoulder at the young man.
“Yes?” At the sound of his name, the young man hastened forward. It hadn’t been meant as an invitation, but he took it as such. He bowed enthusiastically over Emma’s hand. “Madame Delagardie! It is a pleasure.”
At least someone thought so. Emma tried to send a meaningful look at Mr. Whittlesby, but Mr. Whittlesby wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention.
De Lilly was probably roughly her own age, but he seemed like a boy, all pink-cheeked and eager to please. He made Emma feel ancient.
“Do you know Mr. Whittlesby?” Emma asked de Lilly, mostly to needle the poet. She missed her fan. It was so much less effective gesticulating without one.
De Lilly glanced sideways at Mr. Whittlesby and went pink about the cheekbones. “Mr. Whittlesby and I are somewhat acquainted.”
Emma looked inquisitively at Mr. Whittlesby, but the poet had assumed his most otherworldly expression.
“The muses lead many to my door,” he intoned.
De Lilly dropped his gaze to his boot tops, looking sheepish and very, very young. “Mr. Whittlesby was kind enough to undertake a small commission for me.”
Emma glanced archly at the poet. “Service à la Cyrano?”
Mr. Whittlesby sniffed. “If you insist on calling it that. I prefer to think of it as wooing for the romantically impaired.”
De Lilly went an even deeper red.
Oh, the poor thing. Emma felt guilty for having pushed the topic. If only her mouth wouldn’t run ahead of her brain! There was nothing more painful than puppy love. Emma wondered who he might be in love with. There were so many candidates.
