Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(32)

Misha, as family and friends called him, had been a sublime mixture of beauty and overindulgence. He was sloppy in his personal habits, overdressed, and doused in heavy cologne, with his hair too long, his neck spotted with blemishes where he had neglected to wash. Most of the time his large gold eyes were vacant, owing to his surpassing love of the opium pipe.

Abruptly her mind was filled with voices. Tasia swayed slightly, feeling sick.

“Misha, I love you, a thousand times more than she ever could. She'll never be able to give you what you need.”

“You jealous, wrinkled old fool,” Mikhail replied. “You know nothing about what I need.”

The voices faded, and Tasia frowned in bewilderment. Was it a memory, or something conjured by her imagination? She sat and buried her head in her hands, lost in the torment of her thoughts.

With the London Season drawing to a close, the haut ton began to close their town estates and withdraw to the country. Lord Stokehurst was giving one of the first house parties of the summer. The weekend of socializing and hunting would be attended by all the local families of note. Tasia hardly relished the idea of a weekend party, a looming threat to her privacy. On the other hand, the Ashbournes would be attending, a piece of welcome news. Tasia was excited about the prospect of seeing her cousin Alicia, the only fragile link to her past. She hoped they would be able to find a few minutes to talk together.

To no one's surprise, Iris, Lady Harcourt had been invited to act as hostess. “It was her idea,” Mrs. Knaggs confided to the after-dinner group of upper servants. “Lady Harcourt wants the master and everyone else to see how well she fills the role. It's plain as pudding she wants to be lady of the manor.”

Lady Harcourt arrived two days early, to ensure that everything was done to her satisfaction. From that moment on, the estate was in a ferment of activity. Massive flower arrangements were carted in, and musicians were heard practicing in the spare rooms. Lady Harcourt made a multitude of changes about Southgate Hall, everything from rearranging furniture to altering Mrs. Plunkett's menu. Tasia admired her diplomacy. In spite of Lady Harcourt's interference, she was so gracious that the grumbling among the staff was kept to a minimum.

Emma was openly displeased about the situation, even daring to argue with her father. Their voices rang through the entrance hall as they came from their morning ride.

“Papa, she's changing everything!”

“I've given her leave to do as she likes. Enough of this complaining, Emma.”

“But you haven't even listened—”

“I said that was enough.” Catching sight of Tasia, who had been waiting for Emma, he pushed his rebellious daughter forward. “Do something with her,” he snapped, and strode away with a scowl. It was the first time he had spoken to her in days.

Wearing a scowl identical to her father's, Emma whirled to face Tasia. Her blue eyes flashed with fury. “He's an ogre!”

“I gather you were arguing about Lady Harcourt,” Tasia said calmly.

Emma scowled. “I don't want it to look as though she belongs here when she doesn't! I hate it that she has the run of the house. And I hate the way she drapes herself around Papa, and the way her voice oozes treacle when she talks to him. It makes me positively ill.”

“It's only for the weekend. You can certainly bring yourself to act like a true lady, Emma, and treat her with politeness and respect.”

“It's not just the weekend,” Emma muttered. “She wants to marry him!” Suddenly her anger vanished, and she looked at Tasia with desperation. “Oh, Miss Billings, what if she does? I'll be stuck with her forever.”

All at once Tasia found her arms filled with an ungainly twelve-year-old. She hugged Emma affectionately and smoothed her wild red hair. “I know it's not easy for you,” she said. “But your father has been lonely since your mother died. You know that. The Bible says, ‘Let every man have his own wife.’ Would you rather that he never married again, and grew old alone?”

“Of course not,” Emma said in a muffled voice. “But I want him to marry someone I like.”

Tasia laughed. “My dear, I don't think you would ever approve of anyone he takes an interest in.”

“Yes, I would!” Emma pulled away and frowned indignantly. “I know just the right person. She is young and pretty and intelligent, and would suit him to perfection.”

“Who is that?”

“You!”

Taken aback, all Tasia could do was stare at her dumbly. “Emma,” she finally managed to say, “you must forget that idea at once.”

“Why?”

“To start with, men of your father's position don't marry governesses.”

“Papa's not a snob. He wouldn't give a fig about that. Miss Billings, don't you think he is handsome?”

“I've never given his looks a thought. It's time for your lessons.”

“Your cheeks are red,” Emma said in triumph, her sudden glee undiminished by Tasia's warning glance. “You do like his looks!”

“Handsomeness—or beauty—is superficial.”

“Papa is handsome on the inside too,” Emma persisted. “I didn't really mean it when I called him an ogre. Miss Billings, perhaps you could be nicer to him, and smile sometimes. I just know you could make Papa fall in love with you, if you would only try!”