by Nichole Van
“Impossibly irresistible? Or just impossibly wonderful?”
Uhmmm, both? Alter Emme sighed.
“Impossibly incorrigible,” Emme said, swatting his leg with her hand.
James gave a weary mock-sigh. “Yes, I do regularly have that effect on unsuspecting young women. Particularly beautiful ones.” He murmured the last part, his eyes growing warm as he slowly sat up.
Emme was suddenly intensely aware of him, of the way muscles rippled and moved underneath his shirt. The way a light breeze ruffled his golden hair. Of the breadth of his shoulders and the bit of tanned chest she could see where his shirt fell open at the collar. He was almost too much. The ache in her heart nearly too crushing to bear.
The air between them crackled, alive and thrumming. They stared for a long moment. He reached for her, tucking a wet curl behind her ear. His fingers lingering on her cheek, scalding. Emme drank him in, forcing herself not to lean in for more.
Alter Emme groaned in frustration. Lean, she urged. You have got to leeeeeeeean.
Emme swallowed. Hesitant and undecided.
James took a deep breath. He dropped his hand and looked away, staring at the lake. The moment passed.
“I guess I’m going to have to strip off my shirt and go after the poor sunken skiff, aren’t I?” he said with a grimace.
Oh yes, please, Alter Emme replied, breathless and chirpy.
Emme wisely chose to ignore that.
“Is that the gentlemanly thing to do?”
“No, not in the slightest.” He gave a quick unapologetic laugh.
“I’m sure you could get one of the gardeners to do it,” Emme offered helpfully.
“What? And let them have all the fun? Oh no. I’ve spent most of the day locked up with Arthur and my steward. Trust me, I have considerable restlessness to burn off.” He pushed to his feet. “Besides, if you’re going to sit here and watch someone show off, it might as well be me,” he finished archly, winking at her.
Emme laughed in surprise. Then she stared as he tugged his shirt out of his breeches and pulled it over his head in a swift motion, tendons flexing. All the air rushed from her lungs at the sight of his muscled, bare chest.
Oh my, Alter Emme sighed dreamily.
Her day had only needed this.
James cautiously approached the water’s edge. “So, how is the water?” he asked.
“Balmly,” she lied.
“Really?” He tentatively dipped a toe in and then turned to her with a disbelieving look. “My toe informs me the water feels decidedly frigid.”
“Is your toe to be trusted?” Emme deadpanned. “Either your toe is a liar or you’re a wuss.”
He let out a short bark of laughter. “A wuss?”
“A wimp? Fraidy cat?” Emme thought further. “Lily livered?” she offered.
“Lily livered. Ouch. That one I know. I may legitimately be called many things, but lily livered shall not be one of them. Balmy, eh?”
“Like a warm bath,” Emme answered, her voice laced with humor.
“Right, then.” With another wink, James strode into the cold water, though he did let out a high-pitched gasp when the cold water hit his chest.
Emme considered politely averting her eyes. It seemed the best way to punish his arrogance. Besides seeing James without his shirt and clad in skin tight, wet breeches was not helping her situation.
But as she started to move her gaze elsewhere, Alter Emme insistently muttered, Don’t you dare look away! We are going to sit here and enjoy the show.
James did not disappoint. She called out directions to where the skiff had sunk, watching his strong arms cut through the water as he swam effortlessly. He flexed his muscles whenever possible and lazily flipped from his stomach to his back, spouting a great fountain of water from his mouth.
He was utterly shameless.
You mean utterly magnificent, right? Alter Emme sighed.
Emme forced herself not to agree.
Chapter 20
Haldon Manor
The study
Two weeks later
June 8, 1812
Two weeks later, James was quite sure of one single fact—the tension between Emma and himself had grown to epic proportions.
Their days had settled into a pleasant routine. James had secured a slightly more spirited horse for her, and now they devoted each early morning to chasing over fences and fields. After breakfast, he would attend to estate business with his steward, but afternoons were usually spent with her—playing chess, discussing some book one of them had read, laughing over nothing at all.
Georgiana joined them when she felt well enough, her health variable. Some days she seemed almost normal and others her cough nearly tore her frail body apart. But throughout it, Emma was a comfort, her presence giving Georgiana much needed company and support.
Of course, there was Emma’s astonishingly bad luck. How could one person so consistently end up in completely unexpected scrapes? No wonder she had turned up abandoned on his lane in the middle of a storm. After having experienced the last several weeks with her, he realized it was exactly the kind of situation that Emma would find herself in. Predictable, really.
Not that he minded.
She was adventure and spirit and, well, everything he had never known but had always wanted. Clever, witty and decorous without being entirely proper.
She sparkled. Incandescent.
She filled holes in him he had never even realized existed.
He adored everything about her. Adored her throaty laugh. Adored that little curl that always seemed to escape. Adored the slanting look she would often give him through her thick eyelashes. Emma constantly intruded on his thoughts, and James found himself in a losing battle with his better self.
James knew a gentlemen should not become involved with a lady who had no memory of her past. Not that he had read up on the topic in an etiquette book. But he was quite sure—were he to find a chapter entitled ‘On the Courting of Ladies with Missing Memories’—that would be the general recommendation,
He also logically recognized they could not go on as they were indefinitely. At some point, something would intrude to force a change. Emma would regain her memory. Or the mysterious Mr. F would appear to claim her as his own.
His head rationally pointed out that Emma would most likely leave his life as suddenly as she had entered it.
His heart, however, was a different matter. His heart insisted Emma was a part of him, something vital that could never be replaced.
That if she left, he would never be whole again.
To his heart, she was something to cherish. Something to fight for. His heart could not face the emotional carnage of a life without her.
And so he couldn’t help thinking what if.
What if . . .
What if the mysterious Mr. F never came to claim her? What if Mr. F had cast her off? Or what if he were dead, which was why Emma had kept the locket?
And if he did come, would Mr. F love her as much as James did?
Love.
James shied away from the thought. Emma was beautiful and charming and wonderful in every possible way. But did he love her?
He examined his heart. No. Not yet. But it would be so easy, so simple to fall in love.
He recognized Emma could be a different person entirely if and when her memory returned. And in the meantime, how long could they carry on in this bubble? Longing and wanting but avoiding further emotional entanglement because of her unknown past. A past that would most likely take her from him.
His rational mind told him to keep his distance, to keep his heart safe.
And so following sound logical advice, James borrowed a tactic from his brother and created a mental box labeled Not Mine. And every time Emma popped unwanted into his thoughts, his rational mind would pick her up and place her back into the box.
Not mine.
Again and again.
While reading the newspaper. While discu
ssing drainage and crop rotations with his land steward. While watching her laugh with Georgiana, heads bent together.
Pick her up and put her back. Over and over. Not mine. Not mine. The chant almost hypnotic at times.
But his aching soul stubbornly refused to be thrust aside in favor of his logical, responsible mind. It rebelled.
So, as James would mentally reach for Emma to place her back into that Not Mine box, his heart would slide around her, treacherously slipping a hand into her silky short hair and pulling her close.
Close enough he would be able to feel her breath against his cheek, her heart pounding. As he had in the meadow. Only this time, he wouldn’t allow her to pull back. He would dip his head down, would feel that slight exchange of air back and forth before touching her soft lips. . . .
Not mine! Not mine! He would pull his thoughts back and try to find that mental box again, to shut her away.
His heart was utterly traitorous. Betraying him. Tearing him apart. His emotions constantly fighting with each other.
Not knowing which path to follow.
It didn’t help that Arthur continued to resent Emma’s presence at Haldon Manor. Her memory showed no signs of coming back, and Arthur constantly grumbled about how improper it was to have her under their roof, regularly cornering James about it.
Arthur was nothing if not persistent.
“Really, James, something must be done about her,” Arthur said in exasperation from his chair opposite James’ desk. They were seated in the study going over tenant accounts, rain tapping against the window and casting the room in blue-tinged gloom.
James stifled a groan.
Not again.
“We are not having this conversation, Arthur. We have said all that there is to say,” James replied, refusing to look up from the accounts book.
“James, it has been over a month. A month! We have sent out runners and made inquiries and come up with almost nothing.”
James shook his head, not looking up, scratching down a note with his quill.
“Still not having this conversation, Arthur.”
“I know you had hopes over that small lead Ethan’s man found near Bristol,” Arthur continued, relentless.
“It’s a pity the weather turned so dreary today. Don’t you agree?” Head still down. “Let’s talk about the weather.”
“But it now appears that the missing Miss Willis had actually just eloped with a footman.”
“Or gooseberries. We could talk about gooseberries.”
“In any case, you cannot continue to give Emma shelter.”
“What about ninjas? I understand they are fascinating.”
Arthur paused. Wisely, he ignored the comment. “James, even you must admit that she knows far too much about the world.”
“Or zombies. We could talk about zombies.”
Arthur blinked.
“I hear they like to eat brains.” James permitted himself a small smile as he continued to stare at his accounts book.
Arthur let out an annoyed grunt. “Zombies? Ninjas? What on earth are you talking about? I swear, James, sometimes you are addled in the head.”
“Yes, well, that is most likely true.”
Arthur sighed his most long-suffering sigh. “James, she cannot continue to remain. The only logical explanation is, well, . . . you know.”
James exhaled, still not raising his head. He made a note in the ledger, letting the silence stretch.
“Again, Arthur, that is not the only explanation,” he finally said. “And I cannot express how tired I am of saying that sentence. Once we know the truth, everything will make perfect sense. We just have to be patient until then.”
“But, James—”
“No, Arthur.” James pushed the account book away and returned the quill to its stand.
Raising his head, he looked his brother in the eye.
“We are done with this conversation. Done.”
James rarely became upset. His even-temper was the one positive trait that all his acquaintances agreed upon. He was the easy-going one. The gentleman who would step in to create harmony when tempers flared. He indulged in exasperation at times. Irritation on occasion. But true blood-boiling anger? That was almost a complete stranger.
Only Arthur had the incessant persistence necessary to goad him into losing his temper.
“James—” Arthur started again.
“Are you accusing the lady of improper behavior?” James asked, trying but failing to keep anger out of his rising voice. “Besmirching her name? Has she been anything other than a proper lady while here in my home?”
“You know exactly what I am saying, James. Dash it, do not try to twist this into me accusing her. You ride with her everywhere. Unchaperoned—”
“Which is my own fault, Arthur!” James interrupted. “I am the one who keeps forgetting to take a groom along, not Emma.”
“You haven’t heard the talk around town. I don’t need to say anything. I just let the facts speak for—”
“What facts? I don’t like the tone of this conversation.” James tried again, without success, to keep his own tone level.
“She knows things that are quite improper. That maneuver with Sir Henry, for example.”
“She saved the man’s life! Good grief, Arthur. Would you have had her watch him die?”
“No, of course not. But she recognized all of those odd fruits including the Chinese gooseberry and—”
“Oh, heaven protect us from ladies armed with a knowledge of exotic fruit!”
“—even you must admit that any normal young lady would not have such knowledge, much less the impertinence to act on it. Can you imagine Marianne doing such a thing? Her excellent sense of propriety would never allow for it!”
“Oh please, Arthur,” James said with a grimace. “Marianne hasn’t enough backbone to say ‘boo’ to a stray dog, much less insert herself into a crisis. Propriety has nothing to do with it.”
Arthur gasped. “How dare you impugn Miss Linwood’s honor!”
James rolled his eyes, trying to figure out how their conversation had arrived at this place.
“Arthur, now you are being ridiculous. Stating that Miss Linwood has no pluck is hardly attacking her honor. It’s just declaring the obvious.”
Arthur flushed dangerously. “Marianne represents all that is lovely and virtuous.”
“Agreed. And if she had even an ounce of courage, she would have renounced her brother and run off with you months ago. You know I would do everything in my power to ensure your future happiness. You would never want for anything.”
“Marianne is bound by honor and propriety, just as I am. Unlike others I know.” Arthur’s narrowed eyes made his meaning obvious. “This conversation isn’t about Miss Linwood and her exemplary behavior. We are discussing Emma’s continued residence under this roof. Or rather her removal.”
James took a deep breath and forced his anger down. “I have made my feelings on this matter abundantly clear, Arthur. Miss Emma will stay until she decides to leave. This conversation is finished.”
James stood and turned away and walked over to the window, staring unseeingly at the lush dripping landscape, his hands clasped behind his back. He heard Arthur stand behind him and shuffle his feet, as if undecided about something.
“James, I know you better than you might think.” Arthur’s voice had lost its edge. He sounded almost weary. “It is obvious to me you have developed an attachment to this woman. But you must see nothing can come of it. Even if she truly is a lady of genteel birth, the man in the locket is most likely her husband or at least her betrothed.”
James said nothing. He let the truth of Arthur’s words wrap around him, tried to force his traitorous heart to believe them.
Unclenching his jaw, James took a deep, stuttering breath, gazing out the window, tracing the rain as it snaked down the glass.
“Do you have any idea how much I would give to actually be the man in that locket?” he
asked after a moment. “To have that kind of claim on her? I would rejoice in finding her free.”
“And what if you find that she is free but not entirely respectable, as I strongly suspect?” Arthur asked quietly. “Would you still pursue her?”
“You have known me your entire life, Arthur, and yet you still understand me so little.” James turned back to his brother. “I have always cared more about who a person is than what society tells me about that person.”
“Even you would not take her as your mistress, James. Under your own roof with Georgiana in residence.”
“You are quite correct, brother. I would not take her as my mistress. I have significantly more respect for Emma than that. I would marry her.”
James ignored Arthur’s dismayed gasp.
Really, Arthur had insisted on this conversation. Now what right did he have to be shocked by it?
“Marry?! You would marry a courtesan?”
James snorted wryly. “It’s been known to happen, Arthur, in case you have forgotten recent history.”
The shocking scandal of the current London Season had been the marriage of Thomas Hill, Baron Berwick, to Sophia Dubochet, a Swiss clock maker’s daughter and popular, well-known courtesan amongst the ton. Everyone had scratched their heads in surprise, as there was no apparent reason for Lord Berwick—who was not much older than James himself—to have married the girl. But James, being acquainted with Berwick, knew of his love of art and general disregard for the opinions of high society. He had a suspicion that Berwick and Miss Dubochet had fallen in love and Berwick respected her enough to honorably commit his life to her.
Arthur snorted. “Yes, well, Berwick’s family is currently suffering the result of his poor choices.”
“Truly, Arthur? How? His sisters are all long married and his brothers could care less. The only thing he suffers is the loss of acquaintances such as yourself. Which, begging your pardon, I don’t think he considers much of a loss at all.”
Arthur clenched his jaw at the insult.
“I would like to think, James, that you wouldn’t do that to Georgiana and myself. We are both as yet unmarried and a stain upon our family honor could be devastating. So why keep her here, if any future involvement is moot? You are just putting off an inevitable separation.”