To Wed a Rake(8)

“Well, it did that. Now everyone’s wondering which member of the French nation you’ll bring to the Cavendish masquerade.”

“What costume shall you wear?” he enquired, changing the subject.

Her eyes snapped at him. “I’m going as Cleopatra,” she said. “And I’ll thank you to go alone, Kerr. I’ve no wish to see you escort yet another light-heeled Frenchwoman and make me hesitate to open my correspondence in the morning. You’ll come alone, and the following day you’ll go to St. Albans and marry Emma, if she’ll still have you.”

“Her refusal is, of course, always a possibility.”

“Don’





t look so damned hopeful about it!” his godmother snapped.





Chapter Five





Bethany Lynn was beside herself with anxiety. Her elder sister had, by all appearances, utterly lost her mind, and nothing Bethany said seemed to convince her otherwise. “Kerr will never believe you’re French!” she said desperately. “Everyone says that he did nothing but drink and seduce women when he was in Paris. He’s an expert on the subject of Frenchwomen.”

“Of course I can fool the man,” Emma answered, clearly unperturbed. “I shall pretend I’m with Mama. She never spoke a word of English in the last two years of her life; there were times when I felt I was forgetting my native tongue.”

“You don’t look in the least French.”

“Sometimes I feel as if I understand men better than you, for all that you’re married,” Emma said. “My expectation is that if I throw on a French accent, babble a few phrases, and appear happy to see him, my true nationality will not matter. I’ll make him believe that we first met in Paris.”

“He’ll never believe that,” Bethany insisted.

“You just said that Kerr admits to being so routinely drunk that he could have had a clandestine encounter with the Empress Josephine without remembering. What’s more, I know the name his intimates call him. I’ll use it to prove our acquaintance.”

“What is it?” Bethany asked.

“Gil. His godmother, the Countess of Bredelbane, wrote me with that bit of information. She writes quite regularly, trying to make up for her godson’s neglect.”

“I’m not convinced,” Bethany said stubbornly.

“From what I’ve heard in the village,” Emma answered, knowing that she was about to shock her little sister, “if one wishes to seduce a man, therappe are only two tools that matter: alcohol and a scanty gown. Most of the stories I hear have to do with either a drunken man or a naked woman. Or both.”

“Who is telling you such things?” Bethany demanded. “You’d think the village women would have more respect for the delicacy of a young lady.”

Emma snorted. “And if I was so delicate, who would help birth the village babies?”

Bethany scowled. “You know what I mean.”

“The point is that if I can’t get Kerr to drink himself into a fever of lust, I’ll simply unclothe myself, and that will do it. By all accounts, a man cannot resist the sight of the undressed female form. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Suddenly Bethany had a little smile on her lips that made Emma feel a sudden stab of envy. Her little sister’s betrothal dated back to her fifth birthday, just as did Emma’s, but Bethany’s future husband, John, appeared on their doorstep after Bethany’s sixteenth birthday, took one good look at his bride’s brandy-colored curls and blue eyes, and promptly began begging for an early ceremony. That was in sharp contrast to her own betrothed, who had driven out to St. Albans to formalize the betrothal once he was of age, stopped by casually a few times if he happened to be hunting in the district, and hadn’t been seen at all for the past three years.

“You should probably leave your hair down,” Bethany said, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing. “And show lots of bosom.”

“I can do that,” Emma said, pulling pins from her dark red hair. It fell to the middle of her back.

“Frenchwomen always wear maquillage,” her sister pointed out. “You would laugh to see how many ladies in London paint a red circle on their cheek and think it gives them the air of a French comtesse.”

“I already use maquillage,” Emma said.

Bethany peered at her. “Oh. You’ve darkened your lashes.”

“And my eyebrows.”

“You’re locked away in the country, and you wear the very best gowns and face paints. And yet you look—well, you look absolutely delicious, Emma. Why?”

“I feel better when I am properly dressed. But I do think you’re right. I’ve been without an audience.”