An Unwilling Conquest Part 48

Em and Heather vociferously a.s.sured her they could.

After luncheon, Em retired to the morning room, her mood one of pleasant expectation. Sinking onto the chaise, she cast a contented glance about her, then relaxed against the cushions and, slipping off her slippers, swung her feet up. Propping her head on a cushion, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

And wondered if it was too early to feel smug. She was deep in dreams of white tulle and confetti when the click of the door latch had her blinking awake. What was Fergus thinking of?

Prepared to take umbrage, she turned her head--and saw Harry enter.

Em blinked again. She opened her mouth--then caught sight of the white flower in Harry's b.u.t.tonhole.

He never wore b.u.t.tonholes--except at weddings. Harry saw her arrested expression and inwardly grimaced; he should have left the b.u.t.tonhole off.

But he had dressed with inordinate care--it had seemed the right touch at the time.

He was determined to do this right. If they'd had the sense to stay at home yesterday, the ordeal would be over by now. Reining in his impatience, he closed the door and turned to face his aunt just as she managed to catch her breath.

"Ah..."

"Precisely," Harry said, no trace of the languid in his tones.

"If you don't mind, Aunt, I'd like to see Mrs Babbacombe." He met Em's slightly protruberant eyes. "Alone."

Em blinked.

"But she's left."

"Left?" All expression drained from Harry's face. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"Left to where?"

Em put a hand to her spinning head.

"But ... to Asterley, of course."

Eyes widening, she sat up.

"Aren't you going?"

His wits reeling, Harry stared at her.

"I've got an invitation," he admitted, somewhat cautiously.

Em flopped against the cushions, a hand at her breast. "Thank heaven for that. Only reason she went."

Recalling the point, she turned to glare at Harry.

"Not, of course, that that'll prove any use--it's plain as a pikestaff you didn't organise to have her invited."

"Organise ...?"

Harry stared at her as if she'd run mad.

"Of course I didn't!" He paused, then asked,

"Why the devil did you think I did?"

Lips prim, Em shrugged.

"Well, there's no reason you couldn't have--I'm quite sure Alfred could have got another name on Elmira's lists if you'd asked him."

"Elmira?"

Em waved.

"I know Marguerite issued the invitations but it'll still be Elmira's party."

Fists clenched, Harry closed his eyes--and stifled the explosive anger building within him. His father was older than Era--and suffered from the same, oddly selective memory.

Em clearly recalled his connection with Alfred but had totally forgotten lhat his mother, Elmira, had been dead some eight years.

The parties at Aster Icy Place were, these days, rather different from those Em recalled.

Harry drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes. "When did she leave?"

" Em frowned somewhat, petulantly.

"About eleven." She glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf

"She'll be halfway there by now."

Grim-faced, Harry turned on his heel.

Em stared.

"Where are you going?"

Harry glanced back, his hand on the k.n.o.b, his expression hard and unyielding.

"To rescue Boadicea from a gaggle of lecherous Romans."

With that, he departed, shutting the door behind him, leaving Em staring in bemus.e.m.e.nt at the uninformative panels.

"Boadicea?"

Harry strode through the door of his lodgings, ripping the white gillyflower from his lapel and tossing it onto the hall table.

"Dawlish! Where the devil are you?" "I'm right here,"

came in mumbles from down the corridor. Dawlish appeared, an ap.r.o.n over his street clothes, silver spoons and a polishing rag in his hands.

"Now what's yer trouble? I thought as how you'd gone to settle it?"