by Sara Portman
That made him feel churlish. Now he was grumpy with himself for behaving like an ass. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly. “I am sorry for my rudeness. It is only the ache in my head.”
Her lip pursed and drew to one side in an expression of patent disbelief.
She exhaled, rearranged her shoulders, and lay clasped hands in her lap. “Very well, then. Now it is your turn.”
She waited.
“Turn for what?” he asked.
“Your turn to thank me.”
He stared. His head was addled. “For what, precisely, am I to extend my gratitude?”
“Just as you have rearranged my life in a way I find satisfactory to me, I have rearranged yours in a way that should be satisfactory to you.”
“Have you now?” he asked. He was certain he would feel quite satisfied as soon as his headache dissipated, but he could hardly credit Charlotte with such an event.
Charlotte rose. Her pert expression tempered to one of pleading as she circled the desk to stand at his side as he sat and place one hand on his shoulder. “You’re my brother and I love you. I am the only family you have left, so I believe the task falls upon me to inform you that you are an ass.”
He turned and half-rose in his chair. “What?”
She released a beleaguered sigh. “You have the lucky fortune of accidentally marrying your love match. Please don’t follow in father’s footsteps,” she pleaded.
He slammed palms on the desk and rose all the way this time. “I assure you, I have no intention of following in father’s footsteps.”
“Good,” she said with a firm nod. She returned to the other side of the desk, leaving him standing there.
How could she even think he would become like their father? It cut deep that she thought it even worthy to point out.
Her expression held nothing but pure sincerity as she paused at the door to his study. “Father had a love match and he squandered it. He pushed her away. All the way to Boston. I do hope you don’t squander yours, John. Don’t repeat his mistake.”
Charlotte pulled the heavy door shut behind her as she quit the room.
John stared at the door as though it might open and provide some greater clarity with which to evaluate her parting sentiments.
He pushed her away. Don’t repeat his mistake.
* * *
Emma wasn’t entirely sure what to do with herself. She wasn’t lacking things to do, precisely, just the inclination to do them. Her growing pile of notes and invitations would be a reasonable place to start, but she wasn’t in a mood for correspondence.
She made a face at the pile.
Nothing that occurred to her as an outlet for her attention seemed likely to succeed in calming the tumult in her heart and her mind, despite her desperate need for it. Peace and calm. The particular brand of peace she sought today was resignation and acceptance. Her part was finished. All had been well at Charlotte’s debut. It had been entirely as scripted. Just as the rumors had enveloped the room early in the evening, so had the attitude, hours later, that so many ridiculous stories were just imaginative nonsense. Charlotte danced each dance—smiling, beautiful, and mysterious.
The last dance had been reserved for Mr. Brydges. No formal announcement had been made that evening, but the fact that both were spoken-for could not have been clearer upon their faces.
It had all gone exactly as it should have gone for Charlotte, and Emma was truly glad for her sister-in-law. She should be content, yet she had spent all morning chasing the elusive serenity in the small park at the center of the square over which Worley House presided. It was not quite a garden. It was certainly not her garden, but living things grew there and she had thought the surroundings might calm her emotions.
She had wandered at first, circling the space to investigate the few trees that populated it. Then she had found a small metal bench and simply contemplated.
Therein had been the trouble. She had found contemplation, rather than distraction, and thus no peace at all. She had returned to the house for a light luncheon, learned the duke had gone out, and spent much of the afternoon staring blindly at the pages of a novel she had located in the library.
She disliked this feeling—as though she were hungry for something in particular, but could not name the food and so could only go unsatisfied. No distraction seemed worthwhile.
She rose from her seat at the writing desk, letters still untouched and moved half-heartedly to the sofa. Perhaps, she thought, if the duke was still out, she should just take her supper in her room and retire for the evening. In the morning, she would be more ambitious in arranging for distraction. Perhaps she and Charlotte could call upon Aunt Agatha.
She had just decided that, yes, she would definitely call upon Aunt Agatha in the morning when she heard voices in the hall.
“Is the duchess in the library?” she heard her husband ask.
“In the front sitting room, Your Grace,” came the reply.
Emma rose, anticipating his entry, and felt a moment of frustration for the quickening of her pulse.
He walked into the room and caught her eyes with a look of determined purpose that seemed a warning. He strode to her and reached out to take her hands. His eyes caught hers and she was struck by the passion she saw there before he lowered his mouth to kiss her.
He kissed her thoroughly. He let go of her hands and placed his upon her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. She yielded to his passion completely, slipping her hands around him and returning his ardor, measure for measure. He released her mouth and dropped his lips to her throat and then to the swell of her décolletage. When he captured her mouth again, he placed his hand where his lips had been, teasing and cupping one breast through her gown until her nipple pebbled beneath his touch.
When she was absolutely certain she cared not one whit for peace or serenity or the possibility of someone walking into the parlor to find them, he pulled away, leaving her breathless and brain-addled. He stood one pace away and stared at her hungrily, as though at a signal from her, it would begin again.
She placed a hand over her chest as it rose and fell and felt her pulse pounding there. “I…were you…was there something you needed, then?” Her voice was weak for lack of breath.
He shook his head. “I will muddle the words, Emma. Before I did, I wanted to make my point more eloquently.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
His lips turned upward. “I could explain again.”
She held up a staying hand. “Let us try the words this time.”
He reached forward and took her hand. He didn’t use it to pull her into his embrace as before, but held it as he gazed warmly down at her. “I owe you an apology.”
“I’ve been so determined not to succumb to foolishness that I’ve been an even greater fool than I’d feared.”
It seemed a riddle she couldn’t solve. “Foolish, how?” she asked.
He backed away and raised a single finger. “Wait here.”
He darted from the room and returned moments later with a small copper pot. Rising from the pot was a white flower on a tall stem. He held it out to her.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It is my apology,” he said, still extending the pot toward her.
She gazed at the unfamiliar flower. It was a single, tall green stem with one large, dark green leaf and the most graceful white flower she had ever seen. It was a single, fluted petal around a thick yellow stamen. Only the petal was longer on one side, as though if she held it upside down, it would resemble a skirt with a train.
“Where did it come from?” she asked, finally accepting the pot from him. She set it on the side table and seated herself next to it, to examine it more closely.
“From the botanist at Kew Gardens. He assures me it’s quite exotic. It’s an Ethiopian Calla.”
A calla lily. She’d heard of them. How lovely and graceful it was.
She looked up at her husband. “Thank you,
” she said humbly. “It’s truly lovely.”
“It’s not an entire garden and I know a piece of your heart will always reside there, but perhaps this can be the place where a piece of your heart begins to reside too,” he said, lowering himself next to her on the sofa.
“I have been a prize fool,” he said, taking her hands in his. “My father’s jealousy and possessiveness toward my mother destroyed this family. I was convinced the only way to keep from repeating his mistake was to make certain I did not fall insensibly in love with my wife.”
Emma’s eyes and heart fell in unison. “I see.”
John set his finger below her chin and forced her eyes to meet his again. “In the end, my choice of wife could not have been more perfect for championing Charlotte. For keeping my indifference, however, it seems I have made a poor choice.”
Emma’s breath caught. “Have you?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
John stepped closer and slipped his arms around her waist. “I have worked very diligently to remain detached from you, Emma, but have failed in every respect. The more I have avoided your company, the more I have longed for it.” He held her eyes captive with a gaze that nearly melted her with its heat and intensity. “I realized today—with Charlotte’s help—that I had it all reversed.”
“Reversed?” she asked, barely able to voice the word.
“When I have been angry with you, you have been calm. When I have been irrational, you have been my reason. When I was defeated, you were victorious. You are not my folly, Emma. You are my balance. You are my sanity. You are precisely what I need, whenever I need it, and I don’t want to waste another moment not believing it. I love you, Emma.” He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
She leaned into it. Eyes closed, his lips still pressed to her skin, she murmured, “Oh, John, I thought I was the foolish one—to hope that I might ever hear those words.” She smiled. “They are just as wonderful as I thought they would be.”
“I love you,” he said again.
She clutched his strong hands in hers and kissed each one of them. “I love you too.”
“Of course you don’t,” he said, pulling back to gaze at her again. He grinned sheepishly. “I am foolishly, insensibly, ridiculously in love with a woman who only married me out of pity for my sister and the convenience of my proximity to her cottage.”
Emma laughed, even as tears of love and joy pooled in her eyes. “And the title,” she reminded him as his mouth descended toward hers. “Do not forget the title.”
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Lucy’s upcoming adventure in
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Lucy left Emma’s room and walked to the drawing room to recover both the book and shawl she had abandoned there prior to Emma’s sudden malady. As she walked, she lamented the loss of the opportunity to apply for the position of governess to the Ashby girls. She had never met Lord or Lady Ashby, but if Emma considered them friends, they were surely good, decent people. Though Lucy was reconciled to taking a position, she most definitely wished to avoid one in which she would be ill treated.
Several days had passed since Lady Ashby had mentioned to Emma her intent to employ a governess. She may well have already begun assessing potential candidates. If Emma insisted upon waiting much longer to aid Lucy in finding a position, this particular post was sure to be already taken.
Lucy sighed loudly as she turned the handle and pushed open one of the painted paneled doors that led to the drawing room, noting the household staff had efficiently whisked away the remnants of tea and closed up the room after she and Emma had fled so suddenly earlier. She crossed the room to retrieve the shawl and book and, as she did so, walked through a slanted column of light caused by the late afternoon sun shining through the windows. Each of the three tall windows opposite the door created such a column, giving the room odd, striped bands of shadow and light.
Lucy had not seen the room in such a state before. Sunlight saturated the room at midday, when it was commonly used, and by dinnertime lit tapers in the sconces would provide a weaker but equally warm source of light.
The household staff saw it this way. They saw it striped in fading afternoon sun, or fully engulfed in darkness before the sun rose or fires were lit. The tentacles of this thought took an odd, fixating hold on her. Was Emma right to caution her so sharply? Was she entering an entirely new realm? Lucy had never lived a life of privilege or luxury, but neither had she ever been a servant. Modest living and domestic service were two very different things.
It was only common sense to understand the lives of some occupants in this house would be unrecognizably different to the others depending on their station. Same house. Entirely different worlds.
She shook her head at the silly thought. She was already in a different world. She was a simple vicar’s daughter. She was no duchess, nor the daughter of a peer. Her life would not be unrecognizable because she came into a household like this one at a lesser station. Life at the parsonage house had never been so segmented. She was both family and domestic there, as were her mother and father.
As she picked up the book and shawl, she looked down and noted how the line between light and dark slashed across the front of her dress.
Where had all this fanciful thinking come from? Emma, well-intentioned though she may be, was wrong—Lucy was perfectly suited to a position as a governess. Yet, after one pleading conversation, here she stood, dancing in shadows, questioning her entire future.
My goodness. She shook her head. She was too practical for that.
She stared unseeingly at the shadow-striped floor and tapped her fingers on the cracked spine of her book. Emma would come around. She always eventually came around to Lucy’s sensible view of things. It was one of Emma’s best attributes, really. But would it be too late? Here—this evening—was a very good opportunity with a very good family.
Hmmm. She shifted her weight between her feet and continued the rhythmic tap of her fingers along the book in her hands. Perhaps all was not lost and she could at least build some sort of a start. She could not very well introduce the topic of needing a position at dinner, of course, but perhaps she could offer to play—exhibit her qualifications in pianoforte. Then the evening would not be a total loss.
“Are you lost?”
Good heavens.
Lucy spun about to discover she was not alone in the drawing room. She blinked. A man rose from a chair in the shadow-shrouded corner of the room and took several steps toward her. She could not make out all the details of his features, but he was tall and finely dressed.
She blinked again and looked back at the doorway through which she had come. Had he been there the entire time and she’d not even noticed him?
A heavy weight began to congeal inside her. She’d been staring at shadows and daydreaming like a ninny and had made a perfect idiot of herself in front of none other than Lord Ashby.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said in her most sensible tone, rushing to repair his impression that she must be a half-wit. “I was just retrieving my things. I had not realized the dinner hour was so nearly upon us.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it is upon us quite yet,” he said. “Worley summoned me early so that we might meet before dinner.”
His response was not unkindly given, and the tightness that had bunched around Lucy’s neck and shoulders upon his greeting unwound a bit—though not entirely. Of course he had come early to meet with the duke. They were political allies, were they not? They must meet regularly. Where was her head? If Lord Ashby had arrived only for dinner, he would be accompanied by his wife.
“It appears His Grace is a bit delayed, however,” he said, stepping forward into the slash of light.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” she said, nodding politely and gathering her book and shawl more tightly to her. She was conscious of wanting to make a positive impression with Lord Ashby, but how precise
ly did one going about doing such a thing after he had caught her woolgathering?
“I have the sense it is I who has disturbed your private thoughts, rather than you disturbing mine.”
Lucy groaned inwardly and felt the flush rising in her cheeks. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. It seems I was preoccupied.”
“No apology is necessary.”
He smiled at her. It was not a dismissal. It was…kind. Perhaps she hadn’t disturbed him. Perhaps he had waited some time and was happy for the distraction, however insignificant. He stepped back slightly and, even in the dim light, Lucy could see it was to allow his eyes to drop all the way to her feet before returning to her face as he took in her full measure. She squared her shoulders and did her best to appear both pleasant and deferential, as she presumed one should when being evaluated by a prospective employer.
“Are you always such a daydreamer?” he asked finally.
“I am not,” she assured him firmly. “I am usually quite sensible, as a matter of fact. I have always been reliable, I assure you. My mother has relied upon me from a very young age in aiding her in her work with parishioners in my village. I was never wayward or flighty as a child.”
A smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “No?”
“No, my lord, not at all.”
His only response was a mildly dubious lift of one brow. How was it that lords always managed to seem so…lordly? Lucy had simply stopped gaining height at the age of thirteen. She had felt small compared to nearly every person she had ever met, but compared to this broad-shouldered man who towered over her in heavy boots and dark coat, she felt positively elfin. How did one project competence and sensibility under these conditions?
“You are probably wondering who I am,” she said. “My name is Lucy Betancourt. I am…” She paused. She had begun to say she was a friend of the duchess, but amended her words. “I am at Worley House as companion to the duchess during her confinement.” Better that he see her as an employee, rather than a friend of the family.