She’d fallen asleep feeling more relaxed, physically and mentally, than she could ever recall. With his warmth spooned around her, she hadn’t felt confined, she’d felt safe, cherished, protected, adored.
Thanks to all the gods in all their heavens he’d gone traveling when he had. It would take her a whole month to find the resolve to leave this house and the man who dwelled here.
Much less the child he was coming to love, as well.
Nine
“I am glad to see you putting her through her paces.” Hadrian Bothwell smiled at Emmie from Caesar’s back. “A week is long enough for a placid animal to settle in.”
“Petunia is not placid; she is dignified, and I could hardly join you without a proper habit, could I?”
“S’pose not. So have we heard from Rosecroft?”
“Not yet.” Emmie patted the mare’s neck. “But it has only been a week or so. Winnie has written to him twice and to her friend Rose, as well.”
“When do you think he’ll take Winnie to meet his family?” Bothwell held his mount back so they could ride side by side. “Or hasn’t he told them of Helmsley’s indiscretion?”
“I’m sure he has,” Emmie replied as mildly as she could. Helmsley’s indiscretion, indeed. “He was considering taking her with him on this trip but wanted to be able to travel quickly.”
“One can see where a child would thwart that aim.” Bothwell glanced over as if he’d belatedly sensed his poor choice of words. “I think Miss Winnie must be running you ragged, as well, Emmaline Farnum. You look like you’ve come off a hard winter, my girl.”
“I am just a little fatigued,” Emmie said, feeling her irritation spike, though she considered Hadrian a friend. When he’d first come by her bakery, he’d always chatted for a few moments and appeared to take an interest in her welfare—a little more than the interest of a vicar or a neighbor. Then he’d run into her a few times in town, making purchases, and insisted on walking with her and carrying her packages. Emmie had considered it his public declaration of tolerance for one in her position; but then had come his proposal. It had been almost two years ago, and she was still a little perplexed by it.
Flattered, but perplexed.
“Emmie.” Hadrian steered his horse toward a small clearing that sported a gazebo and some vestiges of flower beds overgrown with asters. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to speak with you about, but the moment hasn’t presented itself. If you have a few minutes, I’d like you to hear me out.”
His blue eyes were looking dreadfully solemn, and his handsome features were serious. Emmie let him assist her to dismount but felt the first twinge of anxiety when he held her by the waist for a moment, searching her eyes before stepping back.
Had that been an embrace?
“Come.” He took her gloved hand in his and led her to the gazebo, leaving the horses to crop grass. When she sat on the bench inside the little wooden structure, he surprised her further by sitting beside her and taking off his gloves, then hers.
“Hadrian?” She looked up at him expectantly. “You’re not going to propose again, are you?”
“I am,” he said. “Before you reject me out of hand—again—I want you to know a few things.” He laced his fingers through hers, his hand cool and dry against her palm.
“Go on,” she urged, curious but unable to escape a sense of dread, as well.
“I’ve received word from my brother that his prognosis is not… cheering,” the vicar began. “We’ve known for some time his health was fading, but it isn’t something that was acknowledged, until now.”
“Hadrian, I’m sorry,” Emmie said, meaning it. The man had lost his wife just a few years previously, and as far as she knew, his brother was his only surviving family.
“I am sorry, as well. Harold is a good man and a better viscount than I will ever be, but as the saying goes, these things are in God’s hands.”
“Not much comfort now, is it?” Emmie offered him a wan smile.
“Not much, though as a consequence of Harold’s situation, I will be resigning from the living at St. Michael’s by spring at the latest, if not by Christmas. I’ve always put Hal off when he wanted to get into details of the estate management and the investments. But he’s told me I’m not to stall anymore, and he means it.”
“So you will be leaving us,” Emmie concluded, feeling a definite pang. Hadrian had been kind to her.
“I will be leaving. I want you to come with me.”
She shook her head and tried gently to untangle their fingers. “I cannot. You do me great honor, but you must understand—”
“Understand what, Emmie?” he shot back in low, intense tones. “Rosecroft will see to the child. I’ll make him dower her and establish a trust if you like before we go. He’ll do it, too, if he hasn’t already. You’d be shut of these rural busybodies, and you would be my viscountess.”
He was so earnest, so convinced of the rightness of his plan, Emmie felt her resolve crumbling. It was best to be firm—she knew that—but were it not for Winnie…
“Don’t answer me now.” He laid a finger to her lips. “I can see you are torn, but, Emmie, my brother has been a good manager, and my family prospers, at least financially. You would never have to haul your own coal again, never have to lime the privy yourself, never have to set foot in a kitchen if you didn’t want to.”
“I am aware of the burdens you would ease for me, Hadrian,” she said quietly, rising and turning to look out over the fields of Rosecroft. He stepped up behind her, and she felt him rest his hands on her shoulders.
“And I can understand, Hadrian, why marriage to you might appeal to me, or to any young lady who knows you. But what does marriage to me have to recommend it? I am not young; you will need at least an heir. I am not received, and for all you know, I would not be the most accommodating partner regarding my marital duties. There is absolutely nothing about this bargain that makes sense to me from your perspective.” She stood with her back to him, feeling his hands resting on her shoulders.
His hands dropped, and he shifted to sit on the railing facing her, his expression thoughtful.
“If there is anything that moves me to anger,” he said, holding her gaze, “it’s the way polite society can wound without a word. A cut direct is just that, a cut to the bone of a person’s dignity and self-confidence, and you’ve let them cut you, Emmie.”
“So you pity me?” she asked, lifting her gaze to the manor house in the distance.
“I have compassion for you, and I admire you, as well. I do not seek another wife like the first, Emmie. Rue was dear, but she was a child, expecting me to do everything but slice her meat for her. She suffered my attentions twice a month in the dark under the covers and then only because she knew we’d a duty to the title.”
“You should not be telling me this.” Emmie felt heat creep up her neck. “I don’t want to know it, and your wife would not appreciate your sharing marital confidences.”
“My late wife,” he said in uncharacteristically clipped tones, “complained of me to her sisters, so do not bark at me regarding marital confidences, Emmie Farnum. Rue and I did fairly well, considering our circumstances, but never more than that.”
“Hadrian, I am sorry,” Emmie repeated, not knowing what else to say. “What makes you think we would ever do more than fairly well should we marry?”
“Ah, Emmie.” He sighed. “Do you think I’m not a man because of a silly little collar? Do you think I can’t see the fire and life in you? You are one of God’s finest creations, and I want you for my own.”
Her alarms went off in shrieking peals of dismay as she realized the man was going to kiss her. He was fair about it, too, taking her gently by the shoulders and looking her square in the eye before bending his head to hers.
Emmie found him far more proficient at the whole business than any rural vicar had a right to be. He was tall, nearly as tall as St. Just, though not quite as muscular or broad, and he brought
Emmie against his chest with a surprising strength.
“Let me kiss you, Emmie,” he murmured, his thumb feathering over her cheekbone as he angled her head to meet his lips. He moved his mouth over hers softly, slowly coaxing and inviting, not demanding. His tongue, when he deftly brought it to her lips, tasted of lemon and sweetness, and Emmie thought she should have found the contact enticing, except that it wasn’t—quite.
“Open for me,” he coaxed, but Emmie wasn’t willing to mislead him that far. The truth was, his kiss—skilled, tender, caring, and in every way well presented—left her indifferent. She stepped back but allowed him to keep her in a loose embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his cheek to her hair. “But I’m not sorry, either. I desire you, Emmie, on many levels, and I could make marriage at least pleasant for you. Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I will think about it,” she said. “Were I to answer you today, Hadrian, I’d respectfully decline.” He nodded but smiled, and Emmie realized all he’d heard was that she hadn’t said no.
“I’ll accept that for now.” He planted a swift, smacking kiss on her lips then dropped his arms.
“Hadrian?” With a hand on his arm, Emmie stopped him from bounding down the steps. “I will not have you displaying your intentions again. While your attentions were in no way unpleasant, neither your reputation nor mine could withstand the gossip.”
He nodded once then gave her a perfectly proper leg up and a perfectly proper escort back to the stables. When he turned to assist her off her horse, however, Emmie rode up to the ladies’ mounting block and got herself down.
She passed her reins to Stevens, who gave her an odd look, but then made her excuses and took herself directly up to the house. She spent a long time in her room, ostensibly changing out of her riding habit but mostly trying to locate her scattered wits. When she concluded the exercise was futile, she forced herself to head back down to the kitchen.
“I got a letter, Miss Emmie!” Winnie came scampering up to her, Scout’s toenails clicking at her heels along the floor. “Two letters, one from Rose and one from Rosecroft. May I open them?”
“Of course you may.” Emmie bent to take the letters from Winnie. “Let’s attend your correspondence in the library.”
Winnie had taken to sitting in the earl’s chairs, both in the library and at the dinner table. She was particularly careful to watch Stevens and the vicar every time they schooled a horse in the ring, and just last night, Emmie had gone upstairs to check on the child before retiring and known a moment’s panic. Winnie was not in her bed, and in the past that might have signaled the beginning of hours of peregrinations about the estate.
Emmie had found her curled up under a spare blanket at the foot of the earl’s bed.
“Let’s repair to the sofa, shall we?” Emmie sat in the middle and patted the spot beside her. Winnie budged up and peered at the letters.
Rose’s epistle was a potpourri of little-girl gossip, but she did point out that when Winnie’s Aunt Anna had a child with St. Just’s brother Gayle Windham, then both little girls would be cousins to the baby. From Rose’s perspective, this must surely require a visit on Winnie’s part to her southern relations.
“A visit?” Winnie said, resting her head against Emmie’s arm. “I should dearly love to visit, but spring is far away. Scout won’t want to wait so long.”
“He’ll understand if you explain it to him.” And in all honesty, the dog had learned a number of commands easily—almost as easily as he inhaled great quantities of kitchen scraps. “Shall we see what your other letter says?”
“Please.” Winnie scooted around, her enthusiasm eclipsing her ability to sit still.
My dear Misses Farnum,
Our trip down here was uneventful. I can honestly report your friend Douglas was a good boy, though he would be less saddle sore if he got off and jogged beside his mount more often. I trust by now you have trained Scout to devour intruders, or at the very least, subdue the occasional slipper. His pedigree is dubious, but I was assured by his breeder he is the equivalent of many an old-time duke, his antecedents being champions on all sides.
My family is in good health, and Anna James Windham in particular sends along her greetings to you both. She is in expectation of a blessed event and has managed to distract my dear brother from his infernal correspondence long enough that he joins us here at Morelands for the next week or so.
My brother Valentine has warned me a gift is being forwarded from him to Rosecroft, a sort of housewarming present. When I consider the way my youngest brother was the butt of jokes and pranks growing up, I am loathe to open any gift from him. If it snarls or emits noxious odors, you must promise to return it unopened.
I commend Winnie on her prompt issuance of correspondence, but fear I cannot agree Scout should be learning how to pass a teacup. A beer mug, perhaps, but nothing delicate. In the alternative, Winnie, you might teach him to roll over, fetch, or bark on command. The Viscountess Amery has apparently taught these same skills to all the males in her domain, with the command to lie down being obeyed with particular alacrity. Anna seems to be making similar inroads with the future duke—oh, how the mighty have fallen.
I miss you both and trust this finds you in good health and good spirits. The enclosed provides a few glimpses of my visit thus far with the last little sketch being of Winnie’s new friend, Rose.
Devlin St. Just
Rosecroft
“What does he mean about the mighty falling?”
“I suppose he means his brother was a very serious man,” Emmie suggested, “until your Aunt Anna married him and made him more lighthearted.”
“Rosecroft is not lighthearted. He should get married, too. I’m going to go teach Scout to lie down.”
In Winnie’s absence, Emmie lifted St. Just’s letter to her nose and found to her profound pleasure the stationery bore a faint whiff of his fragrance.
She was reminded by contrast of the vicar’s attentions.
Hadrian Bothwell smelled good, too, she admitted.
With the sense of a person staring over a sheer precipice, Emmie feared she might marry the man after all. She could learn to tolerate him in bed; on the strength of one kiss, she was sure he’d acquit himself competently in that regard. She could learn to socialize with his neighbors and keep herself occupied while her husband took his seat or went off shooting in Scotland or did whatever it was cordial husbands did when their wives had provided them sons.
Children, she thought with a pang. That was the real draw. Children to love and call her own and raise each and every day under her loving eye.
Except—she stood up and began to pace—if they were boys, they might go off to public school as early as age six. That decision would be her husband’s, just as every decision regarding the rearing of their children would be.
And what if she couldn’t tolerate Hadrian’s attentions? A short, fully clothed kiss was one thing, but what about the more intimate dealings? Somehow, she could not imagine ever begging the man to kiss her, not the way she’d begged St. Just. She could not imagine crying in Hadrian’s arms nor handing him her hairbrush nor asking him for an opinion on a recipe.
Maybe—she sat back down—the situation required a good deal more thought.
***
St. Just came in from his morning ride to find Douglas in the Morelands stable yard, checking to make sure the traveling coach was properly packed.
“I am pleased.” Douglas said, his gaze traveling over the horse’s lathered coat. “You are off your backside, no longer content to twiddle your thumbs while your sisters throw their friends at you.”
“I am off my backside.” St. Just swung down. “Beau was sufficiently rested that he was good for a gallop today. We went by some of my childhood haunts and found them blessedly still the same for the most part. But, ye gods, childhood was a lifetime ago.”
“Can you see someday touring Spain and France and thinking t
he same thing?” Douglas asked as a groom took Beau.
“Yes,” the earl said, surprised at his own answer as Douglas fell in step beside him on the path to the manor. “I can, actually. Not for years, but someday.”
“Then ride every day. It was part of what you enjoyed about being at Rosecroft.”
“I’m bringing a few more of my youngsters north with me when I go back,” St. Just said, finding a tea cart on the back terrace laden with ice water, lemonade, and bread and butter. “Shall we sit?”
Douglas nodded and settled into a chair.
“I’m also nipping into London tomorrow and jaunting down to my own stud farm for a day or two. I’ve sent along a note to Greymoor, requesting word of any worthy prospects, though he charges a pretty penny for anything leaving his farm.”
“Have you written to Emmie?”
“I write to them both,” St. Just replied, chugging some cold lemonade. “Emmie chided me to observe the proprieties, so I have not written to her, precisely.”
“If you did write, just to her, what would you write?”
St. Just sat back, more relaxed than he’d been in days for having had a good gallop. “I would tell her I miss her, that I am scared of being around people all the time, but only marginally less scared when alone. I’m afraid of the next rainy night, still, and I miss Winnie more than I thought I would. Winnie is just… good. Innocent, you know? I would tell her I am not sleeping as well as I did in Yorkshire, but I am managing not to drink much, so far. I would tell her—”
“Yes?” Douglas cocked his head, no doubt surprised at the raw honesty of these sentiments.
“I would tell her I was better when I could smell fresh bread in every corner of my house and know she was busy in my kitchen. I would tell her there are no stone walls here for me to beat my head against, and I miss her.”
“Emmie is a stone wall?” Douglas eyed his water, his expression perplexed.
“In a sense.” St. Just grinned ruefully. “A good sense.”
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