Just like that, heat flooded Cal’s face. Damn. He’d officially earned the title of Worst Friend Ever. “Apologies. That was insensitive.”
Adam offered a jerky nod, then returned to studying the room.
“I’m a lousy friend tonight and an ungrateful wretch to complain to you of all people. You would have been happy to launch—devil take it, now I’m forgetting your sister’s name.” Did the title of Worst Friend Ever come with a crown? Perhaps a spit of land somewhere, like a deserted isle on which to maroon oneself?
“Ophelia,” Adam murmured. “Phee. She would have been out for a couple years by now. Maybe she’d have married already. Or she might be firmly on the shelf at the ripe old age of four and twenty. Twins, you know.”
Cal hid a wince behind a sip of his lukewarm quasi lemonade. Adam wasn’t a terribly handsome man, so it seemed implausible that his twin would have grown to be the toast of the Season. He might never fill out beyond his slender frame, but Adam was young yet. To call the Puppy’s hair merely “red” was rather graciously understating the situation. In reality, his hair was the color of bright-orange carrots and curled wildly in fluffy, feather-like tufts if allowed to grow longer than an inch. To be fair, Adam had full lips and a fine nose. If Ophelia had shared those features, she may have been pretty in her own unique way—although she likely would have lingered on the fringes of society with a minimal dowry and genteel but not high-born connections. Painfully thin, flat-broke, ginger-haired girls were not a sought-after commodity.
“I am sorry,” Cal said again.
Adam accepted the apology by toasting him with an almost empty glass, then downing the contents in one last swallow. “I’m tired. You stand here and stare daggers at every man with the audacity to flirt with your gorgeous sister. I’ll get a hack home.” Adam gave Calvin’s chest a firm pat in farewell and made his way out of the room, his bright hair acting as a beacon in a sea of black coats.
Well, that went poorly. Rubbing a palm over his chest, Cal turned to the dance floor. If he could convince Adam to return for next week’s Almack’s assembly, it would be a miracle. As it was, he’d bribed, begged, and cajoled several weeks’ worth of vouchers for his friend in hopes of not having to face this ordeal alone. But after essentially telling the Puppy he was lucky to have a dead sister, Cal might deserve to suffer Almack’s without support. The haunted look on Adam’s face whenever he spoke of Ophelia created a guilty roll of unease in Cal’s stomach that had nothing to do with angst over watching Emma and her partner—both of whom looked to be having a wonderful time.
Tomorrow people would declare her the belle of the ball, as they had with many events before this one. In the short weeks since she’d moved from school into his townhome, Emma had found her footing within theton. Cal couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride as she conquered society one smile at a time.
The waltz ended, and her dance partner led her, with obvious reluctance, toward where Cal waited. Emma’s cheeks dimpled prettily at her partner, the picture of demure beauty.
What an act. She might be a handful, but he loved her unreservedly. No doubt after tonight, she would have an even larger league of suitors following her about like ducklings in a line after their mama. The drawing room would look like a hothouse by this time tomorrow.
Across the chalky floor, a patroness led several young men, and some not-so-young men, toward them, with a determined expression that signaled more introductions. Almack’s wasn’t the place to play loosey-goosey with niceties. Within these walls, etiquette ruled as king. Even Prinny needed to behave if he expected to stay. Although, since Prinnywasnearly king, he may hold more sway with the powers that be.
Eagle-eyed patronesses and their social constrictions had felt claustrophobic on those rare Wednesday evenings when Cal had attended Almack’s as nothing more than an eligible bachelor. But as Emma gathered attention, those myriad rules were a comfort. Within these assembly-room walls, he did not have to worry about his sister’s safety.
Emma welcomed the introductions with a cheerful curtsy. God, to have that much enthusiasm. She was probably reining in the need to bounce on her toes while pretending to be the perfectly polished gem of femininity their parents had paid that school to create. At least the gentlemen were circumspect enough to not let drool dribble off their chins when facing Emma’s dimples, rumored dowry—and, er, assets.
The damned flask was empty, and too many hours remained to smile through. Hell and blast. If given the option of escaping in a hack and leaving early like his friend, Cal would jump at the chance.
Three torturous hours later, a footman finally closed the carriage door behind them, and Cal breathed a sigh of relief.
“Didn’t you think it was the loveliest evening?” Emma launched into a retelling of the night, hardly stopping to breathe between sentences, while Cal rested his head against the wall of the carriage and closed his eyes.
Her excited summary lasted through the entire ride home and continued as she trailed behind him into the library, where Cal poured himself a drink.
“Seeing you enjoy yourself made me happy for you. I couldn’t be prouder.” That stretched his diplomacy as far as it would go tonight. After an evening of watching men he personally knew consider his sister in a carnally appreciative way, he’d wanted to start throwing gentlemen—using the term loosely—out of the room by their lapels. This was his baby sister. Didn’t they know that only a few short years before she’d been in pigtails and catching frogs to put in the governess’s bed? Now she possessed bouncy, soft bits that scrambled men’s brains and that Cal would prefer to pretend didn’t exist. He missed the pigtails and pinafores.
“Perhaps you will find the future Lady Carlyle at one of these events. Wouldn’t that be grand? If we both had weddings this summer? Or maybe next spring—we wouldn’t want people watching my waistline after a rushed engagement.”
No, they wouldn’t want that. Calvin let her talk, giving an occasional grunt that she’d interpret however she wished. A lifetime of experience had taught him that those words rattling around within Emma would come out no matter what. She even talked in her sleep, as if the day’s leftover syllables needed an escape.
Such a drastic difference between the siblings. The first time he’d visited the Marriage Mart, his reaction had been nothing like this. It had been a disquieting experience to see the speculative gleam in women’s eyes and wonder if they were weighing his fortune and looks against the chance that he’d grow into the kind of man his father was. It made one feel like produce on a fruit seller’s cart, examined for soft spots and signs of rot before anyone committed to a purchase.
In the end, his talent with growing his personal fortune, and those of his friends, went a long way toward encouraging society to ignore his father’s indiscreet mating habits. The man used less self-control than most animals, so the term was apt.
“Didn’t you think Lord Roxbury’s shoulders were divine?” Emma sighed dreamily.
“Am I really the person you should talk to about this?” He settled into his chair and hoped she would run out of air soon so he could go to bed. The chatter intruded on his favorite place in the entire house. This chair had been a peaceful oasis until now. Last year, when his best friend Amesbury stayed with him while wooing his now wife, the evenings had usually ended with the two of them sitting in these chairs, winding down from the day. Conversations had been far more limited, and Amesbury hadn’t drunk his brandy—unlike Cal’s sister, who obviously believed she was pulling one over on him by sneaking a nip now and then. This used to be a bachelor home. Those were the days.
“Who else should I talk to about these things? You’re basically the only person I know in London besides my Saint Albans friends. I can’t talk to Henrietta until tomorrow, and Clementine glared at me tonight, so she might be jealous.”
She had a point. Emma’s success in London meant the gentlemen and hostesses welcomed her, but the implied hierarchy of diamond of the first water set her apart from many other debutantes. Lord willing, Emma would make more friends soon, so she could save these talks for a gaggle of giggling ladies. And yes, Miss Clementine Waters’s jealousy of Emma’s success this evening had been obvious to everyone there.
“Roxbury has an unsavory reputation with the ladies that would make our father proud. As to shoulders—” Calvin shook his head, not quite believing he’d given in to this conversation. “I can see why you’d find them impressive. But you must remember I spend a lot of time with Amesbury. Everyone else is tiny by comparison. My metric is significantly skewed.” He sighed and closed his eyes.
“True. That man is as big as a barn. Trust me, Lord Roxbury’s shoulders were delicious in that evening coat. I thought he’d pop a seam.” The rustle of skirts, followed by the light thud of her slippers hitting the floor, meant she’d taken her place beside him, sprawling with her stocking feet slung over the arms of the chair like the hoyden she truly was. Cal knew her so well, he could paint a picture in his mind based entirely on the sounds she made.
He opened his eyes to level a look at her. “Roxbury runs with a fast crowd. I have heard nothing about him being on the lookout for a wife, so don’t set your heart in that direction. Enjoy the flirtation—alightflirtation—and the dances, but keep your eyes open. Be on your guard.”
