by Sara Portman
Lucy stopped walking. “Still? As in, still engaged?”
“Apparently society has long memories for these kinds of things,” Emma said, with a sideways glance at her friend. “We are both living and both unmarried and neither of us has ever formally broken the engagement.”
“But the man ran off to the war!” came Lucy’s incredulous reply. Her usually placidly blue eyes shone bright with indignation on Emma’s behalf. “Pardon my saying so, but isn’t that a fairly eloquent method of breaking off an engagement? It’s not as though he ever corresponded with you, did he?”
“You would know if he had,” Emma said.
“How very trying for you. Have you spoken to the duke? Has he finally broken the engagement?”
“Therein lies the trouble,” Emma said, as the women turned onto the narrow lane that led to her cottage. “I have spoken to the duke and he does not desire to break the engagement.”
“But, why ever not?” Lucy’s porcelain cheeks pinked brightly. “I don’t mean to say that any man wouldn’t be incredibly fortunate to marry you, certainly. But why this man? He didn’t want to honor the engagement four years ago. Why now?”
Emma sighed and looked ahead. “He has provided his rationale, I suppose, some of which I am inclined to believe. In the end, he has decided he must marry and, as it happens, he is already engaged to me, much to my misfortune.”
“What do your aunt and uncle say?” Lucy asked.
Emma made no effort to hide her pitiful deflation from Lucy. “My aunt believes I should marry the duke. She fears that she failed my parents by not seeing me married off before now.”
“Hmmm,” was Lucy’s only reply. It was not quite the rejection of Aunt Agatha’s reasoning for which Emma had hoped.
The ladies walked around a bend in the road and the weathered stones and intersecting gables of Emma’s tidy, cheerful cottage came into view. She was struck by how glad she was to be home. She was weary—weary of traveling and of problems with unclear solutions, and desperately in need of several moments of restorative calm surrounded by the beauty and fragrance of her mother’s garden.
Her pace quickened.
As she opened the door and stepped inside, the serenity she had eagerly anticipated was snatched from her grasp like a forbidden treat.
“Ah, Lady Emmaline,” the duke said, rising to his feet, looking positively giant in her tiny front room. “How lovely you are today.”
Chapter Ten
The duke and his arrogant friend were in her home, apparently making conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Brown, as though it were perfectly normal and expected for dukes to visit quiet country cottages and chat with the elderly caretakers. Emma was at once aware of the cramped confines of her little home, the looks of sheer panic and awe on the faces of the Browns, and admittedly her own frightful appearance, as she had stopped only once to freshen herself on her journey from London.
If she weren’t so livid at the intrusion, she might have been entertained at the oddity of it all. The two men, in their elegantly cut riding clothes and polished boots, were too…large…and certainly too tailored for her tiny cottage.
Poor Mrs. Brown looked frightened to death. Emma went to her and clasped the woman’s hands in her own, momentarily ignoring her unexpected guests. “Mrs. Brown, how wonderful it is to be home. I have so missed you and Mr. Brown.”
The usually unflappable Mr. Brown was also wide-eyed with uncertainty of just what sort of manners this particular situation required. She shot him a meaningful glance that she hoped conveyed both her apology and gratitude for their forbearance.
“Your Grace,” Emma said, finally turning her attention to the duke, “How lovely of you to pay us of a visit.” Her smile was tight and insincere. “I see you’ve acquainted yourself with my good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. May I present as well my dear friend Miss Betancourt? Her father, Mr. Betancourt, is vicar here in Beadwell.”
The duke nodded toward Lucy. “How do you do, Miss Betancourt?”
“Very well, thank you, Your Grace,” Lucy responded, adding a slight curtsy.
Emma turned at the change she detected in Lucy’s voice and saw, despite the strength of her objections just moments before, her friend’s complexion was flushed and her hand had traveled upward to confirm the condition of the pale blonde knot at her nape. Emma had known Lucy for so long, she sometimes forgot the stark contrast of their upbringings and the limitations of Lucy’s experience, given she’d so rarely been outside the confines of the little village.
“May I introduce to you both my friend Mr. Brydges,” the duke said, with a meaningful glance at his friend.
Thus summoned, Mr. Brydges stepped forward. “A pleasure, Lady Emmaline, Miss Betancourt,” he said with a polite dip of his chin.”
“How kind of you to come, Mr. Brydges.” Emma did not reveal their prior acquaintance, though she watched him warily as she greeted him.
He returned her gaze with a challenge of his own, but answered politely as manners dictated. “My pleasure, I assure you.”
Emma spotted a tray of tea and biscuits on the table in front of their guests and wondered how long they had been waiting there, conversing with Mr. and Mrs. Brown. She would love to simply send them on their way, but couldn’t abruptly do so without scandalizing Lucy and the Browns with her inexcusable manners. If she could manage a moment alone with the duke, however….
“I would offer tea,” she said, addressing the duke with the sweetest expression she could muster, “but I can see you’ve already taken refreshment. In that case, as it is such a lovely day, perhaps you would allow me to show you my garden. It is particularly colorful this time of year.”
The duke’s expression registered an amused twitch. “An inspired idea.”
“I could take a turn in the garden, I suppose,” Mr. Brydges offered with a shrug, but he was immediately the recipient of a quelling glance from the duke. “Of course, I might rather have another of Mrs. Brown’s excellent biscuits,” he amended. “Would you join me, Miss Betancourt?”
* * *
“You have a habit of inserting yourself where your presence is not desired, Your Grace,” Emma said as soon as John had drawn the door to the cottage closed behind them. She stared up at him as though demanding an explanation. He had come to recognize the shift in the line of her jaw as a telltale sign of her displeasure—not that her words weren’t usually clear enough.
John smiled in spite of himself. He couldn’t help it. He had expected that Emma would waste no time on polite exchanges—preferred it actually.
“Ah. There it is,” he said.
“There what is?” she demanded.
“Your habit of plain speaking. You are not one to shy away from conf lict.” He stepped forward from the threshold and lifted his face to the warm afternoon sun. “I was surprised when I learned you left London. Even if you still couldn’t accept the betrothal, I would not have expected you to run.”
She peered up at him through narrowed eyes. “Is that what you believe? That I’ve run away from you?” She stared to one side and shook her head, as though commiserating with some unseen third party regarding this revelation. “Of course you never considered the possibility that I left London to manage an entirely unrelated matter.”
He paused. He had not. But he looked more closely at her flushed cheeks and her studiously averted gaze and wondered if her claim was only a partial truth anyway. “I am sorry,” he said. “I should not have presumed. What matter has brought you racing to Beadwell, may I ask?”
“It is nothing of any account to you,” she said, directing him toward a stone-edged path that wound around the side of the little cottage. “And do not mistake that I will view your following me all the way across the countryside as heroic. I find your continued harassment exceedingly frustrating.”
He laughed. “Heroic? Of course not. I’d hardly call an hour’s ride to call on a neighbor a heroic effort on my part.”
Emma paused. “An h
our’s ride?”
“Hour and one half, then,” he said. “No more than that. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my estate is so nearby. Mr. and Mrs. Brown and I were just discussing their cousin who is a tenant farmer on my estate.”
“How interesting. Surely that information was worth a long and tiring ride from London at a grueling pace.”
“Well, it was interesting to me,” he said. And it was. John did not yet know his tenants. It was a lack he intended to rectify in the immediate future.
Chasing Emma had certainly proven entertaining, but if the game went on too long, it would be a distraction from other obligations. As they rounded the corner to the back of the cottage, John looked up to share this logic with her. And surely would have, if he hadn’t been struck momentarily speechless upon finally taking in his surroundings.
What the devil…
He blinked and looked again. The view didn’t change.
Emma’s cottage was squarely in the middle of someone’s estate gardens. And not just any someone, by the looks of it. John couldn’t recall ever seeing a private garden so ornate or extensive. Blooms in a riot of colors and whimsical topiaries carved in geometric shapes were artfully arranged in a design that seemed to radiate out from a central point marked by the statue of an angel with its open hands raised to the sky. Beyond that, there appeared to be satellite gardens, each one different.
It was magnificent.
It was absurd.
Where were they?
He stared. Then he stared at her.
“What is this place?” he asked when he had regained his ability to do so.
“Mother’s garden,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your Grace, do you mean to say you have left London, in the middle of the season, to return to your country home?”
“Yes. I find I have business in the area. Whose property is this?”
“Mine.” She did not smile. “For how long should we expect to enjoy your neighborly presence?”
He shrugged. “As long as it takes, I imagine.” Then he spun around. “I don’t understand.” He was surrounded by a garden so elaborate, it rivaled the pleasure gardens of some of the finest estates. “Why is this here?”
“Because my mother decided to put it here.” She faced him full on. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that you are not here to chase me?”
“That is precisely why I am here. Isn’t that why you ran from London?” he asked. “So I could prove the seriousness of my intent by traipsing across the countryside?”
“I already told you I did not!” The speed and vehemence of her response had him wondering if perhaps it might be genuine. “I am not playing a game with you, and you must have a rather low opinion of me to believe I would.”
“My apologies,” he said, though he couldn’t quite focus on the conversation Emma seemed intent on having. “Whose garden is this and what did your mother have to do with it?”
Her spine straightened in the way he’d come to recognize, and he knew she disliked his question. “The garden is mine.” She looked steadily up at him, daring him to object.
“Yours?”
“Yes. It’s mine.”
Hers. Her garden. Ridiculous. “Is there a manse on the other side of it?”
“No. Just Mr. Crawford’s cottage.”
John spun, again taking in the sea of flowers and ornamental shrubs divided by wedged sections of hedgerow. Then he gaped at his betrothed. “But…why?”
“A large portion of my garden is on property that used to be owned by Mr. Crawford’s family. My grandfather purchased it from his father decades ago.”
“I don’t mean why this Crawford fellow lives on the other side of it, Emma. I meant to ask…just…why?”
“You are wondering why my garden is quite so large.”
He cast her a baleful glance. “It’s a bit grand for a simple cottager in a country village, wouldn’t you say?”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest and lifted her chin. “I understand what a folly it seems, my little garden, but it’s mine. It’s as much my home as this cottage.”
“How did it get here?”
“We’ve been building it and tending it for years. It started out as my mother’s hobby when she was a girl. She was lonely. Her mother died young. Her father had the responsibilities of a peer. She befriended the master gardener.” Emma shrugged as though the gardener were an expected alternative.
“So she brought him here, to build this?”
Emma shook her head. “No. Sadly, he never saw this. He simply taught my mother his trade.” She paused, regarded him a moment. “And she taught me.”
He peered at her. “You are responsible for all this?” His hand drew a circle in the air to encompass the garden.
She nodded. “With my mother, of course. And the Browns.”
“This is the garden you tended with your mother?” He shook his head as though that may clear it.
“Yes, this is my mother’s garden.”
“So now it is just the three of you—without any other help?”
“I assure you, we can usually manage by ourselves,” she told him sharply. “But when we cannot, Simon is happy to take the odd job or two.”
John looked out over the grounds again in disbelief. The Browns were getting on in years and Emma, practical as she was, was still a lady. This Simon must be a rather able-bodied sort.
He paused at that thought. “Who is this Simon fellow?”
“He lives in the village. He’s the smithy’s son.” She shook her head. “It matters not. Can you we discuss the matter at hand?”
“Which is?” he asked. Why did he find it so endearing when she was flustered?
“Are we forever to be at odds, Your Grace?”
“There is no requirement that we be so,” he stated. “Simply conform to my way of thinking and we need never be at odds again.” He grinned at his triumph of logic.
She did not.
John stepped more closely and reached out to take Emma’s hand. She did not resist. “I am sorry to have teased you,” he said softly, holding her gaze. “Are you truly so opposed to marrying me? I thought we found we can be quite compatible.”
Her eyes lowered. Her voice was weak when she responded. “I don’t think it very gentlemanly of you to remind us a lapse in good judgment on both our parts.”
He reached for the other hand. “I disagree wholeheartedly. I believe kissing you proved that my decision to marry my fiancée has been one of the better applications of good judgment I have made in my life.”
Her eyes flew to his and an adorable blush painted her features. “You shouldn’t speak so frankly.”
He laughed aloud. “Why ever not? You speak plainly. It’s one of the things I appreciate most. Why should we be mysterious and leave room for misunderstanding?” He pulled the hands he held captive, drawing her closer. He was firm and unapologetic when he spoke again. “I find I am quite attracted to you, Emma. I heartily enjoyed kissing you. I look forward to where the kissing shall lead once we are married.”
Her amber eyes grew large and her blush deepened to crimson. Her lips parted as though some objection would be forthcoming, but none came.
Perhaps to make his point, or perhaps simply because he wanted to, he bent his head to capture those sweetly parted lips with his own. He snaked one arm around her back to pull her into a kiss that should leave her with no doubt as to the passions that could be shared between them, if only she gave up her resistance.
He felt her stiffen, but she did not pull away. Heartened by this, he deepened the kiss, gently urging her lips to part and angling his mouth across hers. She released a sound—a sigh that was swallowed by the kiss and he knew the moment when her resistance yielded entirely. Her rigid posture melted and her hands slid upward across his shoulders until she clung to him as tightly as he held her.
Emma. The force of her willing surrender was nearly more than he could bear, and he was no longer certain which of them w
as receiving the demonstration. His tongue danced with hers as he clutched her to him, determined to show her the way. His hands roved over her as the urgency built inside him, and he hated every stitch of clothing that separated them.
Damn.
He tore his lips from hers and held her tightly to his chest, as much to calm his own wild heartbeat as to calm hers. “Dear Emma,” he whispered against her hair, “you threaten all my training as a gentleman.”
She pushed herself free and stared accusingly up at him. “But you kissed me!” Her gold eyes sparked in indignation, but her complexion was still flushed, and her lips still swollen from their kiss.
“You are right, of course,” he said. “I forgot myself. There will come a time for all of that.”
She swallowed. When she spoke, it was slow and measured, with just the faintest trace of unsteadiness. “I am very tired, Your Grace, and I have traveled a long way. If you don’t mind, I should like to rest.”
“Of course you should.” He considered asking when he should call upon her again, but changed his mind. “I would like for you to come to dine at Brantmoor. I will be inviting the vicar and his wife and daughter, naturally. Brydges will be there. I assure you, all proprieties will be observed.”
She shook her head slightly, then opened her mouth only to close it again, as though not sure how to reply.
“Before you decide your fate,” he encouraged, “come dine with me and see my home. Perhaps you’ll decide you would like it to be your home as well.”
She sighed heavily. “All right. A dinner will be fine. But you must invite the Betancourts, as you promised,” she hurried to add.
“Certainly. I shall proceed to the vicarage as soon as we part company.” He sincerely hoped he had not miscalculated. This fiancée of his, who preferred cottage life, may not be swayed by the grandeur of Brantmoor. Might he be risking the opposite effect? Would she become even more set against the union?
He looked again at his surroundings. She obviously enjoyed elaborate beauty in certain respects. She was, without doubt, a very surprising woman
* * *