Free A Valentine Wedding by Jane Feather

had retired to the country, ostensibly only until the scandal had died down, but somehow she hadn’t fixed a date to return to town and Maria had soon stopped asking her.
    While Maria was relieved that those years of Emma’s melancholy rustication seemed to be over, she was conscious of some anxiety about how Emma was going to deal with the social consequences of her wealth. She did not tolerate fools gladly, and she had an impetuous temperament, impatient of restraint. Her fortune and lineage should give her some leeway with the highest sticklers, if she transgressed the rigid rules of society again, but her high spirits had led her into trouble in her first season, even before the scandal.
    There had been the incident of the carriage race with Lady Armstrong … Maria shuddered at the memory. That had nearly ruined Emma’s reputation. And then there’d been the ridotto at Ranelagh, when she’d gone dressed in britches and pretended to be a footpad. Ned and Alasdair had been largely responsible for that escapade, and had taken part in it themselves. And as for her other adventures, if they hadn’t directly participated in them, they’d certainly encouraged them. It was to be hoped that the intervening years had taught Emma some prudence. At least she wouldn’t have the encouragement of Ned and Alasdair this season.
    Had Maria been able to read Emma’s mind at that moment, she would probably have succumbed to strong hysterics. Emma was contemplating the difficulties involved in taking a lover to order. The arrangement would have to be kept secret … from everyone except Alasdair, of course. So long as lovers were discreet, society would turn a blind eye to a liaison if, by some miracle, it could be arranged that the love affair was a prelude to marriage. She and Alasdair had managed to conduct their own liaison without a breath of scandal until its abrupt ending.
    But could this putative lover also be husband material?
    As she went up to her bedroom to take off her pelisse and gloves, Emma was conscious of a stirring of excitement. A faint twitch of exuberance. The first she had felt in the months since the news of Ned’s death. She was twenty-two, too young to settle into a spinster’s passionless retirement. Alasdair, damn his eyes, had been right. She had found it very difficult to live without the lovemaking that had gradually become indispensable to her happiness, her bodily well-being.Alasdair had taught her the joys of passion, and once taught they were not easily forgotten. But they could be enjoyed with others. And she
would
enjoy them again.

    Alasdair arrived in Albermarle Street as the evening was drawing in. He jumped down from the post chaise and walked briskly up the steps. Cranham had been on the lookout for his return and had the door open when his master’s foot was on the first step.
    “A pleasant visit, I trust, sir.” He took Alasdair’s curly-brimmed beaver and his caped driving coat, reverently smoothing the folds. His eyes darted to Lord Alasdair’s boots and he nodded grimly. Whoever had been responsible for their care during my lord’s travels had not known the finer points of champagne blacking.
    “Tedious for the most part, Cranham,” Alasdair said, entering his own front door. He picked up the pile of missives on the table, flicking through them. Invitations, bills, a couple of sealed letters on scented writing paper. One sealed sheet of plain vellum he tucked into his waistcoat pocket. He went into the salon, where a fire burned brightly in the polished grate and a decanter of claret reposed on a silver tray on a marble-topped console table.
    He tossed his mail on a sofa table and poured himself a glass of claret. “I’ll dine at White’s tonight, Cranham.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll unpack your portmanteau, sir. I daresay I’ll find your clothes in a sad case.”
    “Doubtless,” Alasdair said with a slight grin. “Although I considered I managed quite well for