To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(21)

“Why ever did you have that gown made in that fabric?” Emeline asked.

Another lady might look down at herself. Melisande picked up the teapot and calmly poured herself more tea. “It doesn’t show dust.”

“That’s because it’s the same color as dust.”

“There you are.”

Emeline stared at her friend critically. “With your fine, blond hair—”

“It’s dust-colored, too,” Melisande murmured wryly.

“No, it’s not. It’s just that you have very subtle coloring.”

“Dust-colored hair, dust-colored eyes, dust-colored complexion—”

“Your complexion is not dust-colored,” Emeline said sternly, then winced when she realized her gaffe. She hadn’t meant to imply that the rest of her friend was dust-colored.

Melisande shot her an ironic look.

“If you would just wear more vibrant colors,” Emeline said hastily. “A lovely dark plum, for instance. Or crimson. I long to see you in crimson.”

“Then you shall have to pine away,” her friend said. “You were telling me about your new neighbor.”

“He’s quite irritating.”

“You may have mentioned that before.”

Emeline ignored that. “And I don’t know what he does at night.”

Melisande looked at her. One eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly.

“That’s not what I meant!” Emeline fluffed a pillow rather overhard.

“I am relieved,” Melisande replied. “But I’m wondering what Lord Vale thinks of this colonial.”

Emeline stared. “Jasper has nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Hartley.”

“Are you sure? Would he approve of your association with the man?”

Emeline wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to discuss Jasper.”

“I must say, I’m outraged on Lord Vale’s behalf,” Melisande said without heat as she plunked a spoonful of sugar into her tea.

“I’m sure Jasper would be flattered if he only knew.” Emeline sat on the edge of a beautiful gold velvet chair. Her mind immediately reverted to her original theme. “It’s just that I ran across Mr. Hartley last night quite late. I was coming home from Emily Turner’s soiree—you were right; I never should have gone—”

“Told you.”

“Yes, and I’ve just said so.” Emeline bounced a little in her chair. Melisande could be so didactic sometimes. “Anyway, there he was, skulking in a quite suspicious manner in a dark alley.”

“Perhaps he makes his living as a footpad,” Melisande said. She was examining the tray of sweets that the maid had left them.

Emeline frowned. It was very hard sometimes to tell when her friend was jesting and when she was not. “I don’t think so.”

“How reassuring,” Melisande said, and chose a tiny pale yellow cake.

“Although he does seem to move very quietly,” Emeline mused, “which I would think would be most helpful if one was a footpad.”

Melisande had popped the cake into her mouth, and she merely raised her eyebrows now.

“But no. No.” Emeline shook her head decisively. “Mr. Hartley isn’t a footpad. So that leaves the question, What was he doing walking about so late?”

Melisande swallowed. “The most obvious answer is an assignation.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Emeline didn’t know why her friend’s suggestion so nettled her. It was, as she said, obvious. Emeline took a steadying breath. “I asked and he said most explicitly that he had not been to see a lady.”

Melisande coughed dryly. “You asked a gentleman if he was returning from a tryst with a female.”

Emeline blushed. “You always make things sound so awful.”

“I merely repeated your words.”

“It wasn’t like that at all. I made an inquiry; he replied most properly.”

“But, dearest, don’t you see that he would deny an assignation to you in any case?”

“He didn’t lie to me.” Emeline knew she spoke too vehemently. Her face and neck were hot. “He didn’t.”

Melisande looked at her with eyes that were suddenly weary. This was a sore point for her friend. Melisande was nearly eight and twenty and had never married, despite having a very respectable dowry. She’d been engaged once, nearly ten years ago, to a young aristocrat whom Emeline had never really liked. And her dislike had proven well founded. The cad had thrown Melisande over for a dashing titled widow, leaving Melisande with an unnaturally cynical view of gentlemen in general.

Yet, despite her own views, Melisande merely nodded now at Emeline’s rather silly assertion that a gentleman she hardly knew would tell her the truth about so private a matter.

Emeline smiled in gratitude. Brown or not, Melisande was the dearest friend imaginable.

“If he wasn’t returning from an assignation,” Melisande said thoughtfully, “then perhaps he’d been to a gaming hell. Did you ask him where he’d been?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but I really don’t think it was anything as prosaic as a gaming hell.”

“Interesting.” Melisande stared out the window. The little sitting room was at the back of Emeline’s town house and overlooked the garden. “What does your aunt think of him?”