by Rose Pearson
“He lives still,” he said, gruffly, making Nathaniel realize that it was none other than Lord Havisham who spoke. “Knocked out cold for the time being.”
“Mayhap that is for the best,” came the soft voice of Lady Smithton. “We must decide what we are to do now. This cannot be allowed to continue.” Her head turned towards Nathaniel, although he felt sure she could not see him in the shadow of the tree.
He was about to be proven wrong.
“You may as well come out and join us, Lord Morton.” Lady Smithton’s voice was clear yet firm, bringing a sudden flush of embarrassment to Nathaniel as he stepped out and made his way slowly towards the group. “Can I say that I am very glad you have not left us as I feared you might?” She gestured towards Miss Bavidge, who had her head bowed low. “I think there is a good deal of misunderstanding and it is vastly important that the truth is made known, for both your sakes.” She smiled at him encouragingly, although even in the gloom, Nathaniel did not miss the hard glint in her eye. “Shall we sit here?” She gestured to two benches that sat at a right angle with a small glowing lantern between them. “Lord Havisham, if you would—”
“I shall not leave the scoundrel for a moment,” Lord Havisham grated, his threat more than apparent. “You need have no doubt about that.”
Nathaniel blinked. “Scoundrel?” he repeated, not understanding why Lord Rochester would be referred to in such a way when surely Miss Bavidge had gone into his arms willingly.
“As I have said,” Lady Smithton replied quickly. “There is a good deal to set right. Please, do sit, Lord Morton, so that we might begin.”
Having no other option and barely able to look towards Miss Bavidge, who still had her head bowed low, Nathaniel chose to do as Lady Smithton asked and, without a word, followed her to the benches.
Chapter Fifteen
Emma knew she had been foolish.
Her hurt and pain over what Lord Rochester had said had not left her all through her preparations for the evening’s ball. Her confusion about the truth of it all had swirled about her like a fog, and she had not had the opportunity to speak of it to anyone. Her aunt, as usual, had no consideration for her and had barely said a word when they had made their way to the ball. Sitting in the carriage, Emma had felt tears burning in her eyes but had refused to let even a single one fall, steeling herself against them so that her aunt would have no reason to question her in any way. Not that she would have expressed any true concern for Emma, of course. It would merely have been the urge to prevent Emma from garnering any more attention from the beau monde so that her aunt would not have any further difficulties.
Entering the ballroom, Emma had been almost immediately found by Miss Crosby, who had linked arms with her and drawn her further into the room. Emma had not been particularly talkative, however, making Miss Crosby express concern for her, but Emma had chosen not to reveal a single thing. Instead, she had determined silently that she would either find Lord Rochester or Lord Morton and demand the truth from them.
How unfortunate it had been that Lord Rochester had been the one she had found first—although part of her now suspected that he had been waiting for her. Emma had tried to speak boldly, to let him understand in no uncertain terms that she needed to know that what he had said to her earlier about Lord Morton’s involvement with her father and the gossip that had come thereafter had all been entirely true, but Lord Rochester had simply laughed and left her floundering.
He had leaned over her, intimidating her as best he could, and stated that if she did not believe him, then all she had to do was seek out Lord Morton and ask it of him. The truth would come from his lips and would confirm every word Lord Rochester had said.
Emma had not wanted to believe it. Miss Crosby had been frowning heavily in Lord Rochester’s direction, making her dislike for him and her concern for Emma more than apparent, but Emma had not known what to do. To find Lord Morton and to ask him outright what he had done seemed horrifying, for if he admitted it to be true, then that left her with nothing. She would have to do so, she realized, feeling as though her dreams and hopes were beginning to crack all about her, threatening to shatter at any moment. Her head had hung low, her heart aching furiously with a terrible pain. The heat of the room had burned in her cheeks, and a trickle of sweat had run down her spine. Lord Rochester had leaned over her again, stating that mayhap she might like to take a turn out of doors, through the doors to her left.
Why she had agreed, Emma did not know. She had been foolish enough to do so without thinking, her heart still filled with Lord Morton, but her mind filled with questions over his conduct and whether she could state that she knew him at all.
The next few minutes had been nothing but a blur. With Miss Crosby behind her, she had let out a small cry when Lord Rochester had grasped her arm and tugged her from the path and onto the grass, chuckling loudly as he did so. Emma had not known what to do, struggling against him with a fear crashing over her. When he had hauled her into his arms, she had tried to push him away, her hands resting on his shoulders as he attempted to kiss her again. Even now, as she thought of it, a cold sweat broke out across her brow. Lord Rochester had been so strong and determined that had it not been for Miss Crosby’s exclamation of both shock and fright that had distracted Lord Rochester, then she might never have been able to tug herself out of his arms.
Except, she had done so only to see Lord Morton standing near to Miss Crosby, his face white and eyes wide. Her heart had been tugged from her chest by the pain in his expression, her body heaving with ragged breaths as she attempted to find some sort of composure.
Except Lord Morton had done nothing more than add to her torment. Barely able to look at him as he sat on the other bench alone, Emma closed her eyes tightly against the flood of tears that burned. In her shock, in her horror that Lord Morton had seen what she had been doing, she had found a flurry of questions flying from her mouth as though to cover what he had seen of her, and Lord Morton had failed her with almost every answer.
He had stood by his decision to ruin her reputation by gossiping about her father’s attempt at blackmail. She had no upset over his intention to prevent the blackmail from taking place, but the fact that he had admitted to speaking of it to others without hindrance had torn at her. How could he have done such a thing when he knew precisely what it would do to her? Was it because of guilt that he had sought her out at the start of this season? Was his supposed affection for her true? Or was it simply that he felt such guilt over what he had done that he had no other choice but to attempt to court her?
“Now,” Lady Smithton began, softly. “I must begin by stating to Miss Crosby that you, my dear girl, have done nothing untoward.” She reached across and patted Miss Crosby’s hand, who immediately burst into tears. “It would not be the first time that a young lady has found herself frozen in place by both shock and fright. I quite understand what happened. You must not blame yourself.”
Despite her pain, Emma saw the sorrow and upset in Miss Crosby’s eyes and, reaching across, squeezed her hand with her own. Miss Crosby had been so shocked by Lord Rochester’s behavior that she had stared, stunned, at what had been occurring without being able to move. It had only been when Lord Morton had retreated and Lord Rochester had begun to advance towards Emma again that Miss Crosby had found the strength in her limbs and had been forced to leave Emma to retreat from Lord Rochester in any way she could so that she might seek out further aid. Emma was more than grateful for her efforts, for to bring both Lady Smithton and Lord Havisham had ensured that Lord Rochester had not been able to succeed in his attempts. She had been busy trying to find a way back towards the path and back to the ball, whilst Lord Rochester had been determined to keep her far from them as possible, advancing slowly and pushing her further back into the gardens.
Wiping at her forehead with a trembling hand, Emma closed her eyes tightly and let out a long, slow breath. The ordeal was over, although a good deal of pain still remain
ed.
“Lord Morton,” Lady Smithton continued, calmly. “You and Miss Bavidge will need to speak at length, I believe. To that end, myself and Miss Crosby shall go to Lord Havisham and come up with some idea as to what we ought to do with that blaggard.” Her expression grew dark, but her chin lifted. “Might I suggest that what you believe of Miss Bavidge to be entirely incorrect. And Miss Bavidge.” She turned her head to look at Emma directly. “You must also be certain that everything Lord Rochester told you cannot be trusted. I believe that he has deliberately misled you in some matter or other, but in a most twisted fashion so as to set you both asunder.” She shrugged and got to her feet. “Purely for his own pleasure, of course,” she finished, as Miss Crosby also rose. “That sort of man is no gentleman.” Without another word, she linked arms with Miss Crosby and led her carefully towards Lord Havisham, murmuring encouraging words.
Emma could barely look at Lord Morton. Her eyes drifted towards him but could not quite meet his gaze, for her cheeks flushed hot, and her heart began to beat with such an agonized yearning that it was all she could do to contain her tears.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Bavidge?”
Lord Morton’s voice was soft, although she could still see, in the dim light, that his expression was troubled.
“I am not,” she replied, her voice tremulous. “This evening has been…. truly terrible.”
Lord Morton let out a long breath, leaned forward, and raked his hand through his hair. “I am to believe, then, given what Lady Smithton has said, that you were not doing as I first thought when I came upon you.” He looked up at her, a faint hope burning in his eyes.
“No,” Emma replied, steadying herself and curling her fingers around the arm of the bench. “No, I was not, Lord Morton. Lord Rochester—he…” She could not bring herself to form the words, shaking her head instead. “I was foolish to go out of doors with him, of course. I do not pretend otherwise.”
Lord Morton let out a long breath, passing a hand over his eyes and groaning aloud. “My dear Miss Bavidge, I am truly sorry.”
“Sorry?” She looked at him, not understanding.
“I am truly sorry that I believed you to be willingly going into Lord Rochester’s arms,” he replied, his voice hoarse with evident grief and regret. “Now that I think of it, now that I go back in my mind to what I saw, I realize now that you were being held in Lord Rochester’s arms against your will. The horror that had fixed Miss Crosby to the ground, the sounds that I had heard…” He winced hard and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, Miss Bavidge. I can only apologize.”
Her heart squeezed with both relief and pain. “Thank you, Lord Morton,” she murmured, wondering how he could speak to her in such a gentle tone when she believed him to have already brought her a good deal of sorrow and struggle in spreading gossip about her father.
“Might I be so bold as to ask you why you left the ball with him?”
Emma closed her eyes, hating that she had been so foolish. “Because I was confused and upset,” she stated, trying to keep her voice steady. “He told me many things about you, and as much as I did not want to believe them, I found my mind beginning to think that they were true.”
Lord Morton let out another soft sigh, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees and his hands linked together in front of him. “But they are true,” he said, quietly, making her heart tear with pain. “I did speak to Lord Knighton about what I had discovered. I overheard your father boasting to some companion or other that he had found a young widow who was willing to state, quite brazenly, that she had a child by Lord Knighton but that he was refusing to acknowledge it.” He swallowed hard, looking away from her. “He had promised her a good deal of wealth in return, of course. In discovering this, I knew precisely what I had to do. I had to tell Lord Knighton of it.”
Emma knew that this had been the correct thing for him to do, but still, the agony of being reminded what her father had done hit her like a thousand needles being pressed into her skin all at once. “Lord Knighton, I know, found the young lady in question and the matter was brought to a swift end,” she replied, forcing herself to look into his face. “But I do not understand why you had to then gossip about what you had discovered to everyone you knew. Did you not once think about the consequences of such an action on myself? Was that why you sought me out, Lord Morton? So that your guilt might be assuaged?”
Her words rang through the garden, but for some moments, Lord Morton did not answer. Instead, he simply looked at her, his mouth a little ajar and his eyes wide. Emma did not know what to do, looking back at him and finding that he was clearly confused about what she had said. A sliver of doubt entered her mind. Had they, somehow, become mixed up in what had been said?
“Miss Bavidge…Emma.” Lord Morton cleared his throat and swallowed hard before he continued, his hands tightening together. “I have never shared gossip about your father with anyone. I spoke to one gentleman of what had occurred in the belief that he would keep it entirely to himself.” He spread his hands. “Do you not recall that I spoke to you of this very thing?”
Her throat tightened. “No,” she replied, horrified to think that she had forgotten something so important. “No, I do not recall.”
Lord Morton moved suddenly, catching her by surprise. He rose from his seat and came to sit down right beside her, immediately taking her hand in his. A great swell of emotion at his touch crested within her, sending tears to her eyes and a sob catching in her throat.
“My dear Emma, I believe we have both been dreadfully mistaken in one way or the next,” Lord Morton said softly, looking deeply into her eyes. “I confess to you now that I have not told you the truth and that I should have done so from the very beginning. I should have told you that I was the one who discovered what your father intended to do and, thereafter, spoke to Lord Knightly of it so that the scheme could be ended.”
Emma squeezed Lord Morton’s fingers, feeling her heart slowly begin to knit back together. “I quite understand,” she replied gently. “I would have much preferred that you would have told me the truth about my father and your part in it from the very beginning, however. Why did you not?”
Lord Morton lifted his other hand and settled it on top of their two joined ones. “Because I did not know how to bring the matter up,” he replied, honestly. “I watched for you when you first arrived for the season, as I stated before. However, it was simply because of the guilt that I wished to eschew from my heart. The reason that the gossip and the rumors about your father and, in turn, yourself came about was because of my doing.” Looking away, he let out a long, heavy breath and shook his head. “I told you that I spoke to Lord Rochester about something of grave importance, believing that he would remain silent about the matter.” He looked back at her. “He did not. He told as many of the beau monde as he could about what he had learned from me. I confess, Miss Bavidge, that I was wrong to trust him, but at the time, he was my friend and I—foolishly or otherwise—believed what he promised.”
“Then it was not your fault in any way,” she said swiftly, not wanting him to feel any guilt that was not truly his to bear. “Nor shall I hear you suggest such a thing, Lord Morton.”
“I felt it weighing on my mind,” he told her, his fingers pressed over hers again. “I wanted to do all I could for you in whatever way I could so that your season would not be ruined by what had been a foolish misplacement of trust on my part.” Another short pause. “But then I found myself quickly becoming enchanted with you, and I became afraid.” She did not have time to ask him what he was afraid of, for he continued with his explanation. “Lord Rochester threatened to reveal all to you, as a consequence of my decision to end our friendship. If I warned you away from him, then he threatened to ensure that you knew everything.”
Realization dawned. “And that is why you could not speak to me truthfully about Lord Rochester.”
Lord Morton inclined his head, his eyes dropping to the ground at h
er feet. “I was a fool. I should have been honest with you from the start, Emma, but my heart and mind were so caught up with you and yet so deeply confused that I ended up floundering completely.” He sighed but set his shoulders, lifting his head so that he could once more look deeply into her eyes. “I do not think I can bear to be without you, Emma,” he said, his voice softening and his eyes gentle as he regarded her. “If you truly had turned away from me, then I do not think I would know what to do… aside from returning to my estate.”
Emma blinked rapidly, seeing the genuine affection in his eyes and finding it almost impossible to breathe in a calm and unhurried fashion. “I should never have listened to Lord Rochester and allowed my mind such doubts, not when I know you to be a kind, amiable, and tender-hearted gentleman, Lord Morton,” she replied, placing her free hand on top of his and seeing how he turned his hand so that he might interlace his fingers with her own. Her heart pounded furiously as she held his gaze, the evening’s events and the darkness and pain that had swallowed her for some time finally beginning to fade away.
Lord Morton had made some mistakes and errors in judgment, but then again, so had she. The relief to know that it was not Lord Morton who had gossiped about her father’s wrongdoing washed her pain and struggle away, leaving her only with a blissful hope and a developing contentedness. She could say nothing more, leaning closer to him and feeling the same feelings that she had experienced some days before beginning to burn within her.