“You . . . you might not be as sympathetic to me once I tell you everything.”
“Oh, I already know everything. He’s your Masquerade lover, I gather. I can piece together the rest. Thank goodness you declined to describe his co—”
“Alexandra.”
The other woman winked. “I’m rather impressed with you, dear. I’ve never seen Kent so out of sorts about, well, anything. You’re not going to accept his offer, are you? Because you deserve the best.”
“Alexandra.” Emma’s voice was gentle. “I’m a commoner.”
“You deserve the best,” she insisted. “So what are you going to do?”
Here was the moment Emma was dreading. Because she never expected much from Lady Alexandra Grey. She had applied for the position of her maid, and had gained a co-writer and lifelong friend. She didn’t know what she would do without her, what kind of life she would lead. Every woman deserved the support of a friend, and letters only helped so much. Emma felt as if she would be starting over.
“What else is there?” Emma said, taking Alexandra’s free hand. “You know as well as I do that it’s time for me to leave. If I don’t . . .” Emma sighed. “It would be so easy to accept his offer, and I can’t make the same mistake all the women in my family have. I’ve already booked passage to America. I leave for Boston the day after tomorrow.”
“No.” Alexandra set down her tea on the table and grasped Emma’s hand with both of her own. “Absolutely not.”
“My darling friend. I have imposed on you and your family for long enough—”
“Not imposed. For god’s sake, we’ve written together. Our work is important to the women of this country, damn my idiot brother.”
Emma’s vision clouded over with tears. “Then I shall take our writing across the ocean to the women there.” Then she threw her arms around her friend and embraced her tightly. “Don’t despair. I’ll write to you and you must come visit me when I’m settled. We’re going to take the world by storm, you and I.”
Chapter 22
“I've heard gossip,” Richard said, strolling into James’s office, “that you attended three balls this week and danced with not a single debutante.”
James glanced at his brother in irritation. He was in the middle of reading another of Alexandra’s co-written works, a pamphlet discussing the safety of women in factory work. He had no doubt she received most of her information from Emma. The issues in Alexandra’s work discussed matters important to female commoners, things men like him had never considered. Things Emma must have discussed with her.
How could he have been so ignorant all this time, to both his sister’s intelligence and to Emma’s contribution? Everything he read was a reminder: he had been so blinded by his own duties that he'd underestimated Alexandra and Emma.
He had laughed off rumors of his sister as a radical. The drawings in newspapers depicted her as a madwoman who ought to be put away in an asylum. Instead, what he had read were passionate pleas for the men in this country to pay attention to ways in which laws and society subjugated women.
And Emma had helped. How could he dance with anyone else, when her words occupied his mind? When the things she had helped write were strewn across his desk? When he went to bed at night and imagined her next to him, and dreamed of her lips on his? How could he?
“Do you purposely ask my butler to neglect his duties, or has he given up on you all together?” James asked his brother.
“I have a tendency to slip in and ignore him.” Richard sat across from him and glanced at his desk with a sudden grin. “Ah, so you’ve finally decided to brush up on Alexandra’s misdeeds. It’s about time.”
James leaned back in surprise. “You’ve read them?”
“Of course I have. Reciting her work to my lovers never went unappreciated. Personal benefits aside, the writing is concise — likely your masked lover’s doing, since Alexandra has a tendency to ramble.”
James clicked his tongue. “I’m actually rather disappointed you didn’t just come right out and ask who she was. It’s what a rogue would have done.”
“Lately, I’ve been quite the gentleman. At least Emma thinks so.”
So she was Emma to him now, was she? James set his jaw. “Did Miss Dumont give you leave to address her so informally?”
“Emma did, because Emma is staying in my bloody home and when a woman is crying in your drawing room, you don’t tend to concern yourself with formalities.”
Christ. She was crying? Of course she was, because James was an imbecile who had mucked things up.
“How is she?” he asked, a touch hoarsely.
Richard shrugged. “About as well as can be expected for a woman who is about to uproot her entire life and start somewhere new.”
James jerked his head up. “Excuse me?”
His brother calmly slid his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open. “Yes, I expect she’ll be boarding the train to Liverpool soon, if she hasn’t already. Her ship to America leaves tomorrow. Don’t worry, I insisted on buying her ticket — first class, of course.”
The earl rounded the desk and grasped his brother by the lapel. “Which bloody ship?”
Richard didn’t even blink. “The Britannic. It’s the maiden voyage. You’re ruining my jacket.”
“I don’t give a damn about your jacket. She left and you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“Of course I didn’t bother. I wanted to have this conversation without you immediately running off to stop her, you clod.” Richard tried unsuccessfully to extricate himself from James’s grip. With an exasperated sigh, he asked, “Are you going to marry the girl or not?”
“Haven’t you been paying attention?” James roughly released him and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t dance with anyone. I read all her work. I’ve spent the last three days trying to come up with a way of apologizing and offering her marriage without sounding like an utter buffoon, and you bought her a sodding ticket.”
Richard grinned slowly. “Now that’s the answer I wanted to hear. Ask me why.” At James’s glare, he rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun. ‘Why, Richard?’” His brother mocked in James’s hard baritone. “Well, I’m glad you asked. I bought two tickets, though I’m hoping you won’t be needing the other suite.” He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and pressed it into James’s hand. “There’s another train to Liverpool in a few hours.”
James clapped him on the shoulder with a grin and headed for the door.
“Before you go,” Richard called after him, forcing James to a stop. “I ought to tell you something: I'll be married by the time you return.”
James jerked around in surprise, his mouth hanging open. “To Miss Sheffield?” At Richard’s nod, he asked, “Are you drunk?”
His brother grinned. “Drunk seems a lot like love.”
James shook his head. “I had better get an explanation after my honeymoon. Assuming I have a honeymoon.”
“I hear groveling works wonders.” Richard nodded to the door. “Now go make her your countess.”
Chapter 23
The ship had left port.
Emma should have been relieved, but stood in the middle of her first class state room with a growing emptiness inside her. Her heart had always ached a little — it had always yearned for more — but those nights with James were the few in which she was content. Happy.
As she had waited for the ship to leave Liverpool and begin its journey to Boston, a part of her wished she had seen him one last time. Kissed him one last time. That their parting had not been angry words spoken in a foyer, but goodbyes whispered beneath a willow tree in the rain. Goodbyes breathed against his wet skin. Goodbyes sighed as he slid inside her one last time, and kissed her lips, and worshipped her.
But parting words were not gentle. They were not easy. They were always too soon, and they always made your heart ache. That was their nature.
Emma sipped the tea a servant had brought her when she sett
led into her state room. It was cold now, bitter. She drank it anyway and set the saucer down with a clatter that made her wince.
Outside the room, she could hear the chatter of other passengers, but it was all filtered through the unbearable silence of her four walls.
She needed the sea air. She couldn’t breathe.
Emma rose and strode toward the door, but a knock sounded before she got there. Straightening her clothes and smoothing back her hair — she must look frayed at the edges — she called out, “Come.”
A porter came into the room, carrying two heavy trunks. “Morning, ma’am,” the young man said brightly. “I’ve brought ye these trunks after port, as requested.”
“Oh, there must be some mistake. These trunks aren’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as James strode through the suite door. “. . . Mine,” she finished in a whisper.
“That will be all,” James said to the porter, passing him a coin.
The porter quit the room, closing the door behind him with a discreet click that made Emma’s heart leap. She was alone with James. He was here. And he’d brought these bloody trunks.
He cleared his throat. “You’d forgotten some things in your room, and Alexandra wanted you to have some of her dresses to wear in Boston. The weather will be warmer there, I believe. She left you some books, as well.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Alexandra thinks of everything.”
They were speaking to each other in formal tones, but Emma was trembling. When she glanced at his hands, she noticed they shook with some restrained emotion. She didn’t know what. Was it passion? Anger? She was afraid to ask.
Then, finally, his ragged voice whispered her name, and she knew it wasn’t anger. No, not anger. Longing. She knew it well.
She wanted to more closely examine his beseeching expression, but she didn’t dare. Men like him were used to getting what they want, weren’t they? They were born knowing that one day, they would have an entire fortune and title at their disposal, and all the power that came with it.
She was just some illegitimate nobody who had told him no. Perhaps it chafed. After all, he’d never told her he loved her back.
Emma looked away first. “Mr. Grey gave me his word he wouldn’t tell you I was leaving.”
“It was conditional.”
“On what?”
James approached, but didn’t touch her. Still, she felt the heat of him, of that body she knew so well. She wished she didn’t respond to him so, that she could pretend she didn’t desire him, even now.
How could he stand there and look so immaculate, so finely coiffed, when she was coming apart?
She wanted to rip off his coat, his cravat, his waistcoat, muss his hair and watch his eyes glaze with pleasure. Their lovemaking would be desperate, as urgent as last time. Always urgent, always left wanting, because each time Emma told herself it would be the last. She couldn’t be his mistress. She wouldn’t be. She was used to longing now; it was a part of her.
“Emma,” he murmured, grazing his fingers across her jawline. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
“No,” she whispered. “I told you I needed to leave, James. I’m not yours.”
That’s all she could say: I’m not yours, I’m not yours, I’m not yours.
Her heart belonged to him, but she didn’t have to give him her life. What were hearts, anyway? Fragile things, easily given; easily broken. But her life was her own.
“I know.” He sounded patient, if a bit resigned. “I know you’re not. If you ask me to, I’ll return to my suite and say goodbye to you in Boston. But I need to apologize first.”
Emma shook her head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I expected nothing of you.”
“And I expected too much of you.” Their bodies were almost touching now, his fingers still light on her face. “I wasn’t just asking you to be my mistress, was I? I was asking you to risk everything while I risked nothing. To watch me marry, have children, pledge myself to another. I was asking if you would allow me to hide you away and come to you at my whim.” As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward, his lips ghosting over her brow. “Unforgivable.”
Emma felt his breath against her skin, soft and slow and lingering. But she somehow knew that if she placed her fingertips against his pulse, she would find it to be a rapid cadence.
“James—”
“Please let me finish.” His lips trailed along her hairline. “I’ve been reading your work with my sister, and surrounding myself with your brilliant and beautiful and passionate thoughts, and god. How could I ever think what I offered was enough? I want to hear those thoughts in my bed every night. I want to watch you write at your desk and soothe the aches from your back. I want you to teach our children the things your mother taught you, but most of all, I want to be there when you do.”
He slid his hands around her and Emma realized her cheeks were wet with tears. She buried her face in his shoulder as he continued, “I want to wake up to you in the mornings, and make love to you in the afternoons. I want to tell you I love you every day, Emma.”
Emma held onto him. “What are you saying?”
James’s laughter was low; she loved the sound of it. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m asking you to marry me.”
“No. No, no, no, no.”
He shook her gently. “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
She pulled away and looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m a commoner. We can’t — you can’t —”
“I can. And if you look in one of these trunks, you’ll find a special license that proves it.”
“But you’ll be ostracized.”
“Sweetheart.” James whisked her tears away with a smile. “I’ve a sister who writes radical pamphlets and a rake for a brother who works in trade. You’ll find I’m overdue for my own scandal. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them we fell in love in America and I was helpless to resist you. It wouldn’t be far from the truth.”
“James,” she whispered.
He leaned forward and kissed her. “Marry me, Emma. Be my countess.”
Emma threw her arms around him. “Then yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“Thank god,” he murmured to himself, holding her tightly. “I was about to prepare to spend the next few days convincing you if I had to.”
She pulled back with a grin. “Oh, I could always do with some convincing. You’ll find I enjoy being convinced in the morning, the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening. Masks or no masks —” he started kissing his way down her neck — “corset or no corset . . . I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
“Talk,” James said against her skin. “Watch me convince you to forget words.”
Epilogue
A month later, The Earl and Countess of Kent were still traveling the American coastal cities for their extended honeymoon.
They had stopped in Boston, then Philadelphia, and were presently nestled in bed in their hotel in New York. James and Emma were finding they couldn’t get enough of each other’s company. Sometimes they went out during the day and walked along the beach. They spent other days in bed, conversing and making love.
On one such day, a knock sounded at the door. James, who was kissing his way down Emma’s stomach, groaned. “If we pretend we’re not in, they’ll go away.”
The knock came again, more insistent this time. “The sooner you answer, the sooner we can get back to you kissing me,” Emma said.
James passed her a wicked grin and rose from the bed to don his robe.
He strode to the door and opened it with a somewhat impatient, “Yes?”
Emma heard the porter apologize and say something arrived to the front desk from England.
The earl shut the door and returned to the bed with a glossy white box. “Did you order something from back home?” he asked Emma, setting the box between them.
“Hmm?” Emma sat up and tucked the blankets around her. “No. Did you?”
He shook his head and lifted
the lid. Nestled in the black velvet interior were two white masks. They were similar in style to those at the Masquerade, but more elaborately designed, more beautiful. The one intended for the lady had elaborate beadwork that incorporated pearls and diamonds.
For the man, the mask was simpler, made of silk and inlays of ivory, polished and carved to points on the side. Both were shockingly beautiful.
James picked up the note and read the elaborate script, “Dear both, while your presence will be missed at the Masquerade, I hope you reminisce from time to time. Please accept this gift in congratulations. Yours in secret, the Madame.”
Emma touched the seed pearls on the mask. “I suppose news would have made it back by now.”
“She’s bound to be found out one day, whoever she is,” James murmured.
“I hope not. I think I like her.” Emma smiled and picked up her mask. “Shall we reminisce?”
“Yes.” James leaned forward to capture her lips with his. “Let’s reminisce.”
Author’s Note
Fantomina; Or Love in a Maze is a real book and the original inspiration for this story. It was written by Eliza Haywood, and published in 1725.
While Emma and James touch on the book’s discussions of desire, it also explored themes of class, gender, and inequality. It is widely considered to be one of the earliest works of feminist fiction.
As for the Masquerade, it is very loosely based on a few clubs from the 18th and 19th centuries, notably: the Parrot Club, started by three married ladies as a place to meet their lovers in secret; the Hellfire Club, a sex club for members of the aristocracy and politicians; and the Beggar’s Benison, which was a Scottish gentleman’s club.
Thank you!
Thank you for reading A Touch Wicked! I hope you enjoyed it.
A Touch Wicked (Private Arrangements) Page 10