Chapter Nine

"I WANTED TO ASK A FAVOR of you," the earl said to Emma, across the length of the dining table that evening.

"Me?" Her surprise, determined so easily from both her tone and her arched brows, did nothing to diminish how absolutely entrancing she appeared tonight. This, then, must be the best of the lot, from the gowns Mrs. Conklin had acquired, under his instruction and from the dressmaker in Perry Green. While simple, as necessitated by their country setting, the pale blue of the gown was a perfect backdrop to the creaminess of her skin, and the luster of her dark hair.

Zach grinned. "Yes. You."

"I cannot think of anything you might need from me." This, with tremendous wariness.

Ah, if only she knew. Zach consulted his plate, pretending a great interest in the lamb cutlets. "I have a dinner party to attend in London. I would like you to accompany me." He speared a piece of lamb onto his fork and raised his gaze to her.

She stared blankly at him. Almost comically void of any expression, save for her gaping jaw. He had decided to be candid with her when issuing the invitation. Candid, as it were, about one of his goals. "The dinner is at the home of a senior member of parliament, whose support is vital to a bill coming up for a vote in the very near future. A bill I have sponsored."

She closed her mouth and swallowed. "But why would I attend? I know nothing about bills put before parliament or dining in fine company. I haven't the wardrobe to do justice to such an occasion, despite how generous you've been thus far." She began shaking her head. "I would only embarrass you. I know nothing of mingling in...those kinds of circles."

Sorry as he was for her near distressed state, he persisted, "Miss Ainsley, you do yourself an injustice. I assure you, you can more than hold your own." Meeting her gaze steadily, he admitted, "I asked it as a favor, as the invitation has an objective. May I explain further?" This had been planned as well, having expected her refusal. He'd learned a few things about Miss Ainsley, one of which was that she could not resist giving aid to a person in need. He would exploit that now, and without shame.

She nodded, a small frown coming for his asking permission, he was sure.

"The host and parliamentarian, Lord Kingsley, has a daughter." Her frown deepened, her mind surely whirring at the speed of light, he believed. "The daughter is—I can think of no kind words, sadly—a hindrance to my goal of speaking to the man in a setting and in a mood that might find him more agreeable to the policy I hope to explain more persuasively."

"A hindrance?" Now her lovely arched brows rose, high into her forehead.

"She has developed a tendre for me," he informed her in a level tone. A tendre was putting it mildly. The insufferable lady gave new meaning to the word tenacious, had caused Zach several instances where he'd wished that he could somehow escape any disastrous consequence if he but begged her to close her mouth for five blessed minutes. "Her father has insinuated that he might well find his way to lending his favor to my bill if I could manage to return the...affection—presumably by way of a betrothal. Of course, I have no intention of selling myself to gain votes inside the walls, so I thought—" He stopped as her darling lips began to curve in a mischievous smile.

"You want to bring me along, so the man thinks you have already formed an...attachment elsewhere," she guessed. Correctly.

He imagined his returned grin might have appeared sheepish just then. Aiming for a more formal, foreboding mien, he straightened and rested his wrists on the edge of the table, reining in the grin. "You have the right of it, Miss Ainsley." He hoped her seeming merriment over his predicament boded well for whatever her response might be. "I thought if I arrived with someone who seemed to have captured my...affection, it would remove that obstacle from gaining his support."

She continued to grin, the blue of her eyes brightening as the smile widened. Then she bit her lips, attempting to contain her mirth just as Zach decided she might actually be laughing at him.

"Poor Lord Lindsey, the object of an unrequited affection," she teased. "How very...pedestrian."

He rolled his eyes at his, but without rancor, and allowed her to have her fun.

"Honestly, my lord, the idea of so formal a gathering, where I will no doubt stand out like a sore thumb, scares me half to death. Likely I will regret this, but I must say yes, simply because my very inquisitive nature demands that I meet this woman who has so befuddled your political aspirations with her untimely and lamentable fascination with you."

Aside from the very obvious fact that she was finding great amusement in his predicament, Zach was realizing fantastic pleasure in her just now. He liked that she dropped the mien of suspicion and uneasiness usually worn in his presence, had teased him and smiled so spontaneously in front of him. With him. He liked how her eyes brightened so amazingly with her smile. He liked tremendously her spirit, that this girl who so feared that she would be a fish out of water amongst the ton was willing to accommodate him, because she thought it might prove entertaining and because, he knew, she wanted very much to be useful and necessary.

His gaze settled on her lips, still smiling so prettily, so damn temptingly.

He liked so many things about her.

THEY DEPARTED THE VERY next day for London, Emma seated across from the earl in his fine carriage once again. She fidgeted nervously, plucking at invisible specks from her skirt, aligning the sleeves of her jacket so that they were the exact distance from her wrists, moving her bonnet so that the fringe visible across her forehead was equidistant from left to right.

Oh, but she had not thought this through. She'd agreed under some spell, intrigued by the earl's near bashful attitude last evening at dinner, as if he'd never in his life asked a favor of another person. Charmed as well by the very idea that she might be of some assistance to him. However, this part was of a more dubious nature, as she couldn't imagine how anyone might think the magnificent Earl of Lindsey might somehow have formed an attachment to a nobody such as herself.

And then, as if she'd not been nervous enough, as if she'd not already been considering she'd certainly bitten off more than she could ever chew, he'd let it be known today that Bethany would not be able to travel with them, as his townhome hadn't anyone to look after her while they were out and about. He'd said that his housekeeper there was not the ‘warm and fuzzy type'.

"Calm yourself, Miss Ainsley," he said now.

Emma raised her gaze from the curled fists in her lap to his eyes, finding the gray to be softer today, the usual intensity lessened. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at him, or tried to. She had said she would help him, and so she would.

He looked incredibly handsome, or more so, in his brocade waistcoat and breeches of buckskin, covered with a claw hammer coat and finished with his usual Hessians. Next to him, and despite her fashionable gown and spencer which she thought unbearably lovely, Emma felt quite gauche, or at least, fraudulent.

"We might contrive to agree upon some back story," he suggested, "as people may have questions, how we met, how long has it been going on, things of that nature."

"A fake narrative to give credibility to our fake...attachment?"

He acknowledged her apt sarcasm with a tip of his head. "As it is, the simpler the tale, the easier it is to recall, and to pose as truth. Do not embellish—the less said the better. Let us just agree that we are cousins, of a sort, on my mother's side. The Morrissey family is much less known than the Benedicts," he explained. "And you've kept to the family home in Hertfordshire until just this year, caring for your ailing mother, which will explain why no one in London is familiar with you."

"Do I use my own name?" Dear Lord, it sounded dangerously convoluted already.

He frowned. "Of course. "

Emma nodded. Cousins. Morrissey. Hertfordshire. Ailing mother . "All right." It was here and now that she considered that this scheme seemed suddenly less like fun and more like true deception, and something woeful twisted in her belly.

Her anxiety was quelled somewhat as they neared and then entered the city, and Emma found she could not take it all in, the size and the scope and the height of London. She glanced out the left window and then the right, her gaze filled with wonder. Having never been to London, she truly hadn't any idea what to expect, but reality gave no legitimacy to any of her previous imaginings. It was loud and big and bustling, as the carriage meandered down city streets, and drivers and pedestrians squawked and chattered, and the roads and sidewalks teemed with people, and the buildings were close and tall and so overwhelming. But she smiled as she soaked it all in. It was all just so fascinating.

As the carriage slowed, to accommodate for the crush of traffic, Emma's gaze was captured by a couple outside walking upon the sidewalk. The gentleman sported a bright orange tailcoat and a hat longer than his head, while pushing forth a stick of shiny wood with each of his steps. The woman wore the most sumptuous long coat, held together with frog closures and being the exact shade of fresh spring grass. Atop her head sat the most amazing hat Emma had ever seen, being closed about her face with hard scalloped sides, and sporting what seemed like an entire garden at her brow and crown. Their walk was perfectly in tune, even as their garish color choices were not, his left leg and the stick moving at the same time as the woman's right leg, their stride similar that it appeared almost rehearsed.

Emma pulled her eyes from the stunning couple and met the earl's gaze, wondering if he'd witnessed so spectacular a sight, but he was not looking out the window as she had been. He was watching her. And the storminess had returned to his gaze, as he watched her so intently.

"What is it?" She asked, believing surely something must have happened since their last words had been exchanged to have wrought such a severe change in him. Gone the affability, gone the near pleasantness, replaced by what she deemed a brooding and quite unnerving glare.

"What is what?" And just like that, his expression was shuttered. The darkness left his gaze, he unclenched his jaw, and he lifted a brow at her with his countering query.

Emma shook herself, loosened her own frown, and turned again to look out the window. She sat primly now, intent on being less the country girl come to town, presuming it was her animated fascination with all the sights and sounds that had instigated his sour countenance of a moment ago.

She nearly startled, only seconds later, when he rapped his walking stick upon the roof of the carriage. But this was only a notice to the driver to stop, and Emma leaned once more toward the window to see what their destination might be.

THE EARL SPRUNG FROM the carriage nearly before it had stopped, and well before the driver might have come to open the door. He supposed it would not have been in good form to accost his artless houseguest, and counterfeit sweetheart, within the confines of the carriage and before she'd actually enjoyed even one small part of the city. But damn if his little country miss was not the most amazingly alluring creature, and then even more so when her face lit with such enthusiasm at things to which he'd not give a second notice, including one garish carroty coat and a hat which might draw the attention of as many birds as it did people.

He hadn't meant to be brusque, or appear surly, but she'd caught him unawares, and in the middle of raking her quite mindfully with his hungry eyes. She'd turned to him, her animated smile a thing to behold, her expressive gaze so damnably appealing. He did not care at all to have been caught gawking at her, as it were. He liked even less that he had, in the first place, been reduced to those simmering and ravenous long looks at her, all the while wondering how he might seduce her and make her his, even as he knew he would—could—promise her nothing.

Ah, if only he were a rogue with less of a conscience.

She hadn't asked why they had stopped, or where they might be going, only put her hand into his as he helped her alight and continued to swivel her head about, taking in every detail of the dirty, pretentious city.

He guided her into the closest storefront, whose shingle pronounced it as Mrs. Shabner's modiste. A bell tinkled above the door as he pushed it open and steered Miss Ainsley within. Zach did not visit modiste's often enough to say that the shop was busy or not, but the front room showed several ladies and one portly and unamused gentleman idling around tables with ready made wares, scarves and gloves and a table of fabric swatches.

Understanding where they were and what they were about, Emma turned and showed another nervous gaze to him. He immediately put her at ease, "It is all very necessary to the ruse, Miss Ainsley." He held her hand still, because it would show the modiste—who had just come from a back room and noted the arrival of a person of importance and pasted on her prettiest smile—that Miss Ainsley was favored, and thus her treatment would be polite, nearly fawning. He held her hand yet, as well, because he liked the feel of it in his, like the way their hands fit, and how soft her skin was.

But he did release her hand, after it had been noticed by the shop owner, who ignored the other people browsing to shimmy her way around tables and persons to stand before the earl. Modiste's had a particular talent, a gift he might have said, for discerning who was monied, and who would be spending.

"My lord," she greeted him, her painted lips spread wide in her face.

"Mrs. Shabner, I bring you Miss Ainsley," Zach said. The woman's gaze raked Emma with enormous judgment from head to toe. "She will need to be outfitted for three days in London."

He was quite sure he could see her doing math in her head. Her smile grew. "Of course, my lord. Any particular events?"

"One dinner party and one ball. Several daytime—"

"A ball?" Emma turned her face up to him. "Truly?" Her excitement was so palpable, so contagious, he could not help but smile, even as he knew the total cost for this undertaking just went up, as Mrs. Shabner's gaze was keen as she considered his indulgence.

"Shoes? Hats? Gloves? Undergarments?" Clarified the modiste, with a lift of her brow.

Zach waved the gloves in his hands with some ennui, as was expected of him. "A complete outfitting, if you please. Dinner gown by tomorrow night, and ball gown for Saturday."

And now the modiste showed a hint of alarm, at which Zach raised a challenging brow. Her gaze narrowed and her smile was tight, knowing he would exit her shop if she could not accommodate him. He could find several who would in a very close proximity.

"As you wish, my lord. Come, my dear." She led Emma away from Zach, calling over her shoulder as she stopped with Emma near the table of fabrics, "Have you a preference to color?"

"Blues," he said, decisively.

"Bold?" Wondered the modiste.

Zach leveled her with a decisive frown. "Pastels," he clarified, answering her unasked question of Emma's role in his life, paramour or beloved. Supposed beloved, he amended.

"Cut?" The modiste persisted.

"Tasteful."

"Style?" Mrs. Shabner lifted a hand to indicate the attention-grabbing hat atop a mannequin.

"Elegant," he corrected. "She needs no decoration, as you can plainly see."

"Mm," agreed the modiste, considering Emma's fair and perfect skin. She reached out and touched a lock of Emma's hair, escaped from her hat. And then to Zach, "Very well. I'll need her for an hour at least."

He nodded. To Emma, he said, "I shall take up some business nearby and return for you."

"Oh...all right. Thank you, my lord." Of course, her eyes said that it was not all right, that she would rather he stayed with her. But she needed to learn how to go about on her own.

With a curt nod, he pivoted and walked to the door, hearing the modiste say to Emma, in a tone that was not quite a whisper, "You've got him sewn up quite nicely, Miss Ainsley. "

To which Emma replied, clearly having no inkling of the woman's inference, "We're cousins. Of a sort."

"I'll bet you are," the modiste tittered just as Zach closed the door behind him.

EMMA WAS HAPPY THAT evening to remain within the earl's Mayfair townhome, not quite sure she was ready to face the masses, so to speak, at a public outing. She was immediately enamored of the residence though it bore little resemblance to Benedict House, with its stark and cool feel. The floors were tiled, the doors were painted black, and there was not a stitch of wallpaper in the entire home. She'd been shown to a neat but plain room of blue, which was still prettier than her apartments in the King's Arms Inn.

The earl had not been far off the mark when he'd mentioned that his city housekeeper, Mrs. Downing, was certainly not warm and fuzzy. The woman was tall and lanky, her face long, her mouth drawn down at the corners, not even lifting at Emma's pretty greeting. Emma was glad then that she'd not brought along Bethany, as she couldn't imagine being at ease leaving her daughter in this woman's care.

"Dinner is prompt, at seven o'clock," the woman said, or rather called over her shoulder as she led Emma up the stairs while the earl remained in the foyer, looking immediately at messages and letters that had piled up since last he visited. Upon the second floor, still walking stiffly ahead of Emma, the woman asked, "Where is your maid, Miss Ainsley? "

"I haven't one."

This, now, turned the starched woman around, so suddenly that Emma nearly crashed into her.

"No ladies maid?" All of the abhorrence of a hundred faces seemed crammed into only this woman's.

Emma's initial thought was to reply that she'd never had her own maid, that in fact she was a maid. But recalling what they were about here in the city, and her role, she shrugged as casually as she supposed the woman's frigid glare would tolerate and brushed it off. "By necessity, the poor dear was forced to remain...at home," was all she could think to say.

She was rewarded for her lie with a harrumph which suggested she was not believed at all, or that if she was believed, she was thought a ninny. Emma wondered if she would know, by the woman's expression—so far she'd been witnessed to only two, her frown and her heavier frown—what she thought of the earl's houseguest. Deciding she didn't care, she thanked her for showing her to her room and received only a curt reminder of the dinner time. Emma closed the door after the woman and made a face, which properly revealed her own opinion of so cold a fish.

It was just past four now, so she imagined she might have a lie-down before supper and so removed her shoes and jacket.

She imagined a footman might deliver her small, borrowed valise with her pitiful few belongings that she might hang the only gown likely to pass muster with Mrs. Downing's critical eye for dinner.

When Emma had stepped from the carriage in front of the townhome, she'd thought to gather the valise then, but had recalled from the hundreds of carriages that had stopped at the King's Arms Inn that a lady never carried her own luggage. Emma was sure that however she might get through the next few days in the city, she would rely heavily upon what she had witnessed of the upper class that had graced the rooms of the inn over the years. The ladies held their chins high and behaved with an air about them that all their needs should be met before they had been voiced. Mostly, Emma and all the employees of the inn were invisible to the nobles, man or woman. This had suited Emma perfectly and it was usually a sad day when she was not unseen, as this had indicated that the person had homed in on her as their own personal fetcher and getter, as she and Gretchen used to say. People were rarely outright nasty, but they never let it be forgotten on which side of the coin she was on.

As it was, Emma would make good use of her many years in service to the inn, as she was fairly certain she might be able to successfully emulate a fine lady. Or at least a poor cousin of a fine lady.

A rap at the door bade her call for entry, expecting a footman. She was surprised when the earl pushed open the door. He was followed by a footman, however, who quietly bobbed his head at Emma and set her lone valise onto the bed.

"My lord," she said to the earl, without a hint of cleverness.

He frowned. He was always frowning. She hadn't any idea what this moment's cause might be. Ignoring him, she opened her valise and began to withdraw her few possessions.

"I was going to take you for a ride through the park," he said, his gaze passing over the bed where lay her jacket and then the floor where sat her slippers.

"Oh, well, I hadn't known—but you still can," she amended quickly when the brow did not unfurrow. Having no inkling then that she was making a grievous misstep, she sat on the little stool which later would be used to climb into the bed and put her small heeled slippers back on. She swept the skirts of her gown out of the way, up to her knee, and tied the ribbons tightly as the shoes were, truthfully, one size too large. Placing her hands on her knees, she pushed herself to her feet and caught sight of the earl's expression. Still glowering.

Thumping her hands onto her hips, and with no small amount of impatience, she wondered, "What now? Why are you frowning?"

He opened his mouth twice, but no words came forth. On the third try, he managed in a tight voice, "Miss Ainsley, do not ever dress yourself—any part of yourself—in front of a gentleman. In front of any man!"

She rolled her eyes and reached for her pretty long-sleeved spencer of blue cotton.

"I wouldn't have done so in front of any gentleman," she defended, donning the jacket, and closing the three buttons at her chest.

"Am I not any gentleman?" he wondered, less affronted than still annoyed with her lack of decorum, she decided.

"You are different," she said vaguely and faced him again. "You've seen me in my shift, And on several occasions, my lord. I'm sure the sight of my stocking-ed shins needn't send you into a dither."

His expression changed. First his mouth lost its scowl and soon enough the darkness left his gaze, and his brows relaxed. She liked him so much better when he wore almost anything but that scowl of his.

"You'll need a hat or bonnet...or something," he suggested.

"Must I? "

"Absolutely. It would be akin to appearing at dinner without a dress to go driving in the park without a hat."

"Oh, bother." She grabbed up the closest one, atop the pile of clothes she'd unpacked, and quickly plopped in upon her head and tied the strings beneath her chin. Seemingly satisfied, the earl offered his arm, through which Emma threaded her hand.

They left her chambers and Emma wondered, "My lord, is it appropriate for you to be inside my bedchamber?" And before he might have answered, she went on, "Seems a larger crime than me baring my ankles to you."

"Touché, Miss Ainsley."

The earl's fancy carriage stood at the ready just off the curb from his front door. A different coachman, this one aged and portly, sat patiently atop the driver's seat. Emma allowed the earl to hand her up into the barouche, whose hood remained lowered, and took note of the high-quality horse team attached to the rig.

The earl sat next to her and they were off.

"Why did we not simply use the carriage and horses we arrived in less than half an hour ago?" Emma wondered.

"The point of driving is Hyde Park is to be seen, and be seen well," the earl enlightened her.

Ah. "Hence the fancy vehicle and expensive horses?"

"Precisely."

"Do you visit Hyde Park often? Like this?"

"Not at all," he admitted, glancing sideways at her. "I thought you might enjoy all the pandering and posing of the beau monde during the fashionable hour."

Emma was struck immediately with two thoughts about this. First, it was very kind of him—which was not specifically in keeping with what she believed of him—to consider that she might enjoy this outing. And then, as hinted by his rather sardonic tone and word choice, she imagined he thought it all very silly, which made her even more grateful that he'd indulged her so.

She was not prepared however, for exactly what he'd meant by pandering and posing , and then neither was she prepared for the number of people doing just that. As they entered a queue of carriages crawling along one road just inside the park, Emma was again made aware of her own gaucheness, feeling terribly underdressed for this occasion.

A greater number of carriages than she had ever seen assembled all at once, were gathered just here, inside the park: two-wheeled and four-wheeled vehicles; led by a pair or a foursome; some with drivers, some without; and a few sporting the family crests identifying the riders. And within these fine carriages, a dazzling display of color and fabric and design were shown to the best advantage by persons who sat regally, their noses tilted skyward, their marked condescension clearly in contrast to their very attendance.

Additionally, people crowded and ambled along the sidewalks, and single mounted riders easily maneuvered in between and around the wheeled conveyances to reach different people.

"Posing, indeed," Emma muttered, watching one young woman rapping her closed parasol against the side of her own carriage. A man, riding close and gripping the door of her open carriage, yanked his hand away as if he'd actually been wounded, and the young lady erupted into a stomach-turning fit of giggling .

The earl laughed and pointed across Emma, to bring her gaze to a woman walking a dog that stood as tall as her hip. Both lady and pet wore matching spencers of pink plaid.

"Oh, my," Emma gasped.

"Lindsey!" Came a call from their left, which turned both Emma's and Zach's gaze in that direction. "Do my eyes deceive me?"

"Lady Marston," said the earl, amiably to an older woman, riding solo inside an ancient carriage that moved in the opposite direction, but stopped just now beside them.

"Never thought I'd see the day the much-admired Earl of Lindsey toured the park with the rest of us commoners."

"Pity the man who believes there is anything common about you, Lady Marston," returned the earl.

Emma considered his tone quite favorable, understanding that he must admire or enjoy the Lady Marston very much, as she sensed in his voice a genuine affection.

"Allow me to introduce Miss Ainsley," the earl said. "She has graciously consented to spend a few days in London with me."

Emma smiled at the matron and offered a, "How do you do?"

The woman, dressed severely in dark gray, and in many layers it appeared, that surely underneath she must be wilted in the fine June sun, passed a critical green-eyed glance over Emma. For her part, Emma had the immediate impression that the woman only appeared malevolent, narrowing her eyes, and pursing her lips as she took her sweet time forming opinions of the earl's present company. However, when her perusal persisted, becoming almost rude, Emma dared to lift a brow at the woman .

And only then did her lips loosen and crease in a smile. "I do very well, my girl. The question is, how did you do it? Get this man into this park at this time of day?"

Emma shrugged. "He invited me."

"Oh, did he now?" Asked the woman with a lifted brow aimed at the earl. She held a cane in both hands, just in front of her knees. She thumped this into the floor of her carriage, and her smile grew. "I suppose that does well to answer any other questions I might have had."

Unperturbed by the lady's presumptions, the earl informed her, "My cousin had just come up from Hertfordshire and, as she's never been to London, I thought it a fine way to introduce her to the pageantry of our city."

"Pageantry? You mean vile spectacle," harrumphed Lady Marston.

"Oh, but I think it's splendid," Emma joined. "I don't know any of the persons here today but find myself enamored of their...zeal for so simple an occasion as riding in a park."

The lady's lips blew out a bemused snort. "Ah, a diplomat. You're to be commended, Lindsey. Only you could manage to attract so similar a character that her words sound so pretty until you assess all of them to know the slander tangled within. Well done. Now off with you! I dislike those carriages who park too long, making useless small talk when no one listens to what we say anyway." She spanked the cane onto the back of her driver's seat and off they went, the woman not even calling out a respectable farewell.

They moved on, the carriage crawling forward. The earl tipped his tall hat to several persons, both men and women. Emma caught the interest of more than one pretty young lady steadied breathlessly upon his person. Of course, this came as no surprise to her. Zachary Benedict was an enormously handsome man, clearly meriting second glances. And third, it seemed. Emma rolled her lips inward, preventing a knowing grin, while she wondered what some of these fawning ladies might have thought or done if they had come upon Zachary Benedict, shirtless and god-like, as she so marvelously had. Marvelous, it had been until it had become Her Inglorious and Reckless Blunder, that is. Invariably, the besotted gazes left the earl and fixed on Emma, their brows immediately dropping, leaving no doubt that they considered Emma's person unworthy of the company she kept.

Emma shook herself. She needed to stop fretting about her own inadequacies. It was unlikely she would ever again have an opportunity or the need to visit London. She wanted to enjoy every aspect of the experience, and not have it ruined by her childish and dour insecurities.

They passed over a small bridge which spanned a narrow stretch of water. On either side of the road over the bridge, stood many artists, painters with their easels and canvases set just so, facing the water. Their deft hands twirled and dotted and swiped paint-filled brushes across their works-in-progress. Several ladies posed along the bridge, their parasols open, their gazes tipped toward an artist while he rendered their image into the foreground of his picture. The carriages slowed with the congested traffic. Emma shifted toward her right, leaning her arms upon the side of the vehicle to better view each painting as they crawled past.

One artist, mixing paints upon his palette, caught sight of her as the carriage ambled by. Emma smiled at him. The man in the beige linen smock let his jaw gape while his brush jammed carelessly into his cerulean blue. He pursed his lips into a kiss, which he sent along to Emma followed by an oily but roguish grin.

Emma laughed at this and waved to him as the carriage moved slowly away from the bridge. When the painter had turned back to his subject, Emma pivoted and found the earl watching her, surprising her with a generous grin.

They took almost a full turn around the park, exiting after the earl consulted his time piece and announced today's session would start within the hour and they should call it a day.

Emma spent the evening alone, missing Bethany already, and loathe to occupy her time with snooping around this house for fear of running up against the formidable Mrs. Downing. With little else to do after taking dinner in her room, she dressed for bed and retired early, though wrestled for some time with anxieties and unease. And thoughts of Zachary Benedict, the source of most of her disquiet.