Judith Ivory by Untie My Heart Page A

his speech demonstrated once and for all its odd cadence. “You are all right then, I take it? For a moment, I thought I had mowed you down. You seem perfect though, after all, no harm done I can see.” He lingered over certain words, a rhythm that was almost predictable, like a kind of poetry. It was indeed some sort of speech impairment, yet it sounded beautiful to Emma. So beautiful she was half-afraid she might inadvertently imitate it.
    She had to be careful as she answered, “I’m fine.” Then she coached herself to a cheerfulness she didn’t quite feel. “And I’ll be right there.” She indicated the table. “As soon as I fetch my new nib.”
    With that, she left him behind, walking at a good pace to her coat on the wall across the room, then digging into its pocket with a kind relief. Oh, she felt glad to be free of him, happy in fact she wasn’t sitting near the man—
    Then she was.
    When she returned to the long table, she found the viscount—Stuart, she staunchly told herself—putting the finishing touches to his own arrangement: You sit here. You sit there. Here, you take that chair. He moved everyone down,including her, so he could seat himself between the bank’s governor to his left and her to his right.
    When he pulled out her new chair for her, Emma hesitated. Then sat, smoothing her skirts under her, feeling all the while that somewhere she’d completely lost control.
    By way of explanation, he raised his shoulder, a small shrug. “I may as well”—he paused in that odd way he had—“sit beside the prettiest one here.” He spoke his flattery less like a compliment, more like a conclusion he’d reached of unquestionable logic.
    She couldn’t figure him out, except that the word unhappy came to mind. When he sat—in her corner chair, as if he would remain at the sidelines of all that was about to take place—his movement seemed weary. He shed his coat onto the chair behind him, then crossed his legs as gentlemen could do, and as anyone less than a gentleman couldn’t without appearing effeminate. He had quite the air about him, educated, cultured. And power. Lord Mount Villiars . And your lordship. She realized, in the near-reverent introductions—everyone was so ridiculously pleased to meet him—he himself never returned a smile, though it seemed more through preoccupation, melancholy, than from rudeness exactly.
    In a casual remark from the deputy governor, she was surprised to learn that the viscount’s power extended beyond money and position. He was “on loan” from London, having to return the next day “to vote.” Emma was nonplussed to realize he’d taken his seat in the upper house—on the very opening day of the new session, as it turned out, full regalia, processions, the queen in crown and parliamentary robe, speeches, state coaches, the whole business. How unpredicted. No Mount Villiars had sat his seat in generations, let alone taken it seriously this time of year, when most members of parliament were still in the country, galloping with their dog packs, wreaking havoc on the local wildlife.
    The newest sitting member of the House of Lords sighed lightly as dossiers and documents and papers came out.
    Then never paid another moment’s attention to her as a woman through the entirety of his business; flirtation over.
    She realized, ten minutes into the transactions of the day, she was miffed. Prettiest one here, indeed. The only female was more like it. Perhaps that was it. He simply enjoyed possessing, like a sultan, every female within view. His lordship here certainly had the looks, money, and mien for it, odd, interesting stammer or not.
    Meanwhile, she pieced together his story through the business proceedings. The viscount, whose father had died six months before, had returned from his travels to claim his inheritance, only to find his father’s brother already had. The returning son and the College of Arms had brought the uncle into check, but not until