“You need to apologize. And not to put too fine a point on it, you need to sober up. And bathe. And change clothes.”
Victor stood on his own two feet, aware that Charles was right. He couldn’t afford to bungle this up any longer than he already had, and at this point, he wouldn’t blame Emily for never forgiving him.
Still, he had to try, and as he made his preparations, he hung on to the one thing he knew was true.
She loves me. She told me so. She loves me. That’s all that matters.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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“Mama, Mama, look, I found a walking stick!”
Dutifully, Emily watched as Sophie ran toward her, carefully cradling the angular insect in her hands.
“What a fine big fellow, Sophie. Remember, be careful, as he is fragile.”
“Can I keep him? In my big jar?”
“No, sweeting, he wouldn’t be any happier in a jar than you would be. Just visit with him for a while, and then bring him back home.”
Sophie thought for a minute, and then offered the walking stick to Emily.
Emily smiled a little.
“For me?”
Sophie nodded.
“Mama doesn’t need an insect friend, sweetheart.”
Sophie nodded again, as if that made all the sense in the world, but as she ran back to play, Emily saw her sneak a worried glance over her shoulder. She might not know exactly what was wrong with her mother, but she knew that something was not right.
Emily didn’t know what to tell her. She didn’t even know where to begin. Technically, they’d gotten everything they wanted. Emily loved her humble little Everly, the house where she had grown up. It was not an impressive property, and it would return to the Crown when she died, as she would leave no heirs.
Meadford Grange would be an impressive inheritance for Sophie, smoothing over the scandal of her birth. She would be provided for. She would not have to eke out a sad living as a companion or worse.
Emily didn’t think about Victor. The first few days after she had returned to Everly, she had done nothing but. She’d wept until she made herself sick, and finally, it was only Sophie’s tears that had made her sit up and start to eat and drink again. Now Victor was a deep and abyssal ache inside her. If she thought of him too long, it would devour her. So, she didn’t think of him.
“Mama, there’s a carriage!”
Emily looked up in surprise and saw that Sophie was right. Down at the end of the drive, a carriage was turning toward the house. Sophie, shy of strangers, ran up to wrap her arms around Emily’s hips.
Emily stroked her hair, frowning.
“I suppose it must be the Cartwrights come to call. They might have sent notice first. Sophie, can you go tell Cook that we may have more for dinner?”
Sophie ran toward the house, and Emily had a moment to rue the simple dress she wore and her hat left in the house. Really, they might have sent some notice, but manners in the country were different than they were in London. She should get used to them again.
The carriage drew up to the house, and Emily was struck by a few different things all at once. The first was that the Cartwrights had never owned anything as fine as the four matched dapple grays that pulled the carriage, and the second was that the tack was chased in silver, something far finer than anyone used in Swandon.
The carriage drew to a halt, and when the door opened, Victor stepped out, looking so handsome in his traveling clothes that Emily nearly gasped. Then she got her wits about her, truly realized that it was Victor in Everly, and all sense deserted her.
“Emily...” Victor said, hands open and taking a step toward her.
A sensible woman would have stayed to greet him. Emily, overcome with emotion, simply ran. She dashed toward the house and around behind it, toward a grove of willows that she and Susannah used to hide in when they were children. Behind her, she heard Victor’s yelp of surprise, and then thundering footsteps as he ran after her. He caught up with her under the cover of the willows, the sweeping branches coming down to close them in green.
He grabbed her by the arm, turning her around to face him.
“Damn it, Emily, don’t run from me!”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re horrible!”
“I am, but I’m not going to let you run.”
“Why not? You gave me a property in the north of England, and you told me you never wanted to see me again. I may do as I like!”
“No, you can’t because... This is beginning terribly. Emily. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
She glared at him, trying to pretend that the wrist he held wasn’t any part of her. She had spent so much time in mourning for Victor that the rage felt almost purifying.
“Do you even know what you are sorry for?”
He looked down at her gravely.
“Many things. So many things. I am sorry I did not trust you. I am sorry that I did not wait to hear an explanation before I ran off to break every damn thing between us. I am... so, so sorry I hurt you.”
“You did,” she whispered, furious that her eyes were welling up with tears. “It hurt so badly when you rejected me.”
Victor flinched.
“I know, and I will spend the rest of my life apologizing for it, if that’s what you want. I cannot even promise never to do it again, because if you take me back, I am sure there are days where I will be just as stubborn and just as wrong-headed.”
“That was a strange thing to tell me, Victor, if you are trying to get me to forgive you...”
“I know. I am also somewhat new at this. But I will promise you this. I may be stubborn and wrong-headed, but I can promise you that never in my life will I ever distrust you again. You’re Emily, you are my Emily, and I know what that means.”
‘What does it mean, Victor?”
“Why, it means that you are the kindest, sweetest, most loving woman I have ever met in my life, and even if you do strange things, you always have a good reason for doing them. You already have my love. God, sometimes I think you had it from the moment you ran into me at Almack’s...”
“You ran into me, Victor.”
“No, that’s not what... never mind. What I am trying to say, Emily, is that you’ve always had my love. Now I know you deserve my trust, and I will never, ever doubt it again.”
He looked at her with those dark eyes, and no matter what he had done, Emily could feel the love he bore for her, deep and abiding and as eternal as it was possible to get in this world. She looked back to the laughter they had shared, and she looked forward to the laughter they would have later, and yes, the fights, and stupid arguments, and the fun as well, and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling through her tears.
“Tell me again, please.”
Victor didn’t hesitate.
“I love you. I trust you. Please, will you marry me?”
“I love you so much, Victor. And I trust you. And I will marry you.”
He crushed her in his arms, burying his face in her hair.
“Thank God, thank God,” he muttered.
After some timeless moment, Emily pulled back to look up at Victor. It had only been two weeks, but there was a gauntness to his face that hadn’t been there before, and those dark circles were back.
“What is it?”
“You look terrible, Victor.”
His hand went up to his scar, and she pushed it back down impatiently.
“Not the dratted scar. You simply look as if you’ve not rested a full night since I left London.”
“I haven’t. I might not again until you and I are safely wed, and I have not ruined it again somehow.”
Emily smiled and linked her arm through his.
“Well, just be a little careful, and we shall be fine.”
“You promise?” he a
sked, sounding hopeful.
She laughed.
“I do promise. Now come on. I want you to meet Emily properly.”
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EPILOGUE
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One year later …
“Brr, listen to that rain,” Emily said, glancing at the roof. “Sounds like it’s bucketing out there.”
Victor nodded as he closed their bedroom door behind her.
“Some idiot told Sophie about the pixies that come to steal you away when it rains. I would have been to bed sooner if I hadn’t had to discuss with her why they were not going to be stealing her away.”
“Because she is very well-loved and well-watched and we care about her?”
“No, because I gave her my old practice fencing sword and told her to use it at need.”
“Victor, you did not!”
“It’s blunt, and she was delighted. It has the place of honor next to her stuffed rabbit.”
“She’ll want fencing lessons next, you know.”
“I’m a duke these days, so I can probably afford it.”
Emily would have made some retort, but then her mouth went dry as Victor started to undress. God, she had been married to him a year, and she still could barely stop wondering at how handsome he was.
Down to his nightshirt, he crawled into bed with her, wincing a little at the cool sheets.
“Are you not producing any heat of your own? Come here, woman...”
Emily sighed as he gathered her into his arms, snuggling under his chin gratefully.
“It’s been a little harder to stay warm lately, it’s true. It’s still better than when I woke up every morning needing to throw up.”
“Ah, yes. That was not pleasant.”
Emily rolled over to her back, allowing Victor to cup his hand over the rise of her belly. There was a sleepy little kick in response to his touch.
Victor smiled.
“Seems like the baby is ready to be out and about in the world.”
“I’m ready for that, too, I think, and I know Sophie is ready to meet her little brother or sister.”
Six months ago, the arrangements had been official. Sophie had become Sophie Sommerset, a name she loved, and Victor and Emily’s legal daughter. Emily thought that no one could have looked prouder than Victor when the papers were made official.
“Are you well tonight, Emily?”
“I am. Thoughtful, perhaps.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Do you know how very unlikely it is that we are together? That I came to London, that you walked into me at Almack’s, that all of this happened? There are just so many places we could have missed each other, so many ways we might never have met and found… well, this.”
“First, you bumped into me at Almack’s because you could not look up from your dance card, and I try not to think about things like that. You might as well ask why we were born at the same time, or in the same country.”
“Unimaginative, Victor.”
“What matters,” he continued, ignoring her, “is that we are actually together. Somehow, despite everything that has happened, we are here together, in this house, with our daughter down the hall, and our child due to be making an appearance any day now.”
“So, you don’t think it’s a surprise that we ended up together?”
Victor levered himself up on his elbow, looking down at her with an expression of incredible tenderness. He had fought on two continents, and Emily knew how fortunate she was that he had even survived, let alone returned to England to find her.
“I think, as much as I love you, some things were simply inevitable.”
She started to say something in response, but then he leaned down to kiss her, and she decided she didn’t need to say anything at all.
* * *
THANK YOU
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I hope you have enjoyed the novella special.
Natalia’s Secret Spinster's Society is Book 08 in the series.
The next book targeted release date will be 12th June.
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CHAPTER ONE
Christin Potter pulled in a breath and held it as Lord Jeanshire leaned forward, reached out across the table between them, and wrapped long fingers around his china tea cup. Then slowly, as if not to startle her, he receded back into his chair, the only sound in the room being the seat giving way for his comfort. She watched in fascination as he extended the cup to his lips, then jerked her gaze up to meet his eyes.
His startling blue eyes had remained on her through the entire process, and Christin was sure she’d never experienced a more intense moment in her life. Lungs burning, she released her breath and licked suddenly dry lips. She’d become aware of him the moment she’d walked into her sitting room. The elegantly furnished blue space was used for all Potter Agency’s interviews with potential employees and patrons of both the middle and upper class. She’d met both titled and untitled gentlemen, yet had never seen a man fill and command the very air in the room like the Earl of Jeanshire.
Potter Agency was known in London for the talent and discipline of its servants. Men and women were trained for positions in wealthy homes. The business had been started by her mother-in-law and on the death of both Mary Potter and Christin’s husband, she’d taken on the responsibilities, seeing to every part of the business from hiring the teachers, accepting apprenticeships, and seeing that her employees were placed in the best homes throughout the empire.
She’d wondered why Patsy, one of her housekeepers-in-training, had looked slightly unsettled after showing her latest patron to the sitting room and retreating.
But the man she’d found in her sitting room had not been what she’d expressed at all.
Where did one start when they wished to describe the Earl of Jeanshire?
Christin closed her eyes as she sipped her own tea.
There was no need to look at the man further. He’d become engraved in her mind the moment she’d walked through the door.
When one thought of a lord, Jeanshire was not what came to mind. While he was extremely handsome, his hard features were not aristocratic. His bone structure was more primitive than genteel. And so, instead of comparing him to the statues of gods, her mind envisioned ancient warriors, men who gained their power though strength and not birthright.
His hair was like fine gold but cut unfashionably short, leaving only a hint of a wave that made his face all the more impressive.
She couldn’t picture this lord as an idle god or even a lazy peer. Had she seen him on the road dressed any other way, she’d have thought him a builder, capable of lifting and breaking both stone and man. A leader who’d shed blood on his climb to the top, giving nothing for free yet taking whatever he wished, no matter the consequences.
In a word, he was far too manly to be a god.
He looked more like a god killer, as though he were the reason the deities no longer roamed the earth, fearful of what this man could do, hiding in the heavens while the rest of the world was forced to yield to Jeanshire’s every command. The bones in his cheeks and wide jaw were resilient… as was the rest of his body.
He was large, his shoulders exceeding the width of the wingback chair he’d been shown to. He'd been forced to sit with his legs wide for fear of them running into the table between them.
A matter that had never risen before with anyone else.
The muscles in the thighs that lay under his dark silk breeches flexed with his every move, and her body became inflamed whenever she c
aught sight of it.
Dear God.
Christin had never experienced anything like this in her life, and at seven and twenty, she thought herself well past the years of senseless infatuations and the wiles of attractive men.
She’d not even been this way when she was sixteen.
Not even with her departed husband.
Though why she would compare a simple, yet lovely man like John Potter to this… beastly robust man, she didn’t know. The only thing her husband and Lord Jeanshire had in common was their sex.
“What do you think?” The deep rumble of his voice gave her a start.
“Hmm?” What was wrong with her?
She pulled in another breath and dared to settle her gaze on his.
Unsurprisingly, her thoughts fled her once again, but she was aware she made a sound of some sort. She only hoped it had been appropriate as her eyes moved over him again.
His arms, which rested on the chair, looked like twin columns of solid stone. One hand held her china cup. How it didn’t crumble to dust in his grasp she didn’t know. A single gloved finger rubbed leisurely against the porcelain edge, and Christin struggled to keep her mind from imagining those fingers on her person, undoing the buttons at the front of her dress and idly stroking an exposed nipple until it bloomed.
Heat shot through her core with such strength that her vision blurred.
“Mrs. Potter?” He had the sort of voice one would pay great money to listen to, a baritone so low that anything he said sounded far too arousing. The sound of it was like being wrapped in a warm blanket or held against skin.
His would be warm, she readily decided.
She jumped when she heard the tea cup hit the table. “Oh, I…” Her voice trailed off as his eyes caught hers again and then his gaze moved lower, his irises becoming warmer before his nostrils flared. He clenched his fist, and Christin clenched the muscles between her thighs.
Natalia’s Secret Spinster’s Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 32