Perhaps they were the first genuine stirrings of love, as well.
Maybe, if she simply sought him out and told him how she felt, all the pain, guilt, and anguish would abate.
Unless, of course, he rejected her outright.
Which just didn’t bear thinking about.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The following day, Emma was just about to mount the steps into the Rossburys’ traveling coach when she sensed a familiar presence behind her. Before she could turn to greet him, James’s hand pressed beneath her elbow, propelling her up the coach steps.
His touch sent a jolt through her. What was he doing here? Was he coming with them? Struggling to collect her wits, she glanced at him through the window, but he just gave her an impenetrable stare, then stood back to admit another passenger into the coach.
“I see I’m just in time. Is there room for my box on the boot? It’s not very big.”
George!
How on earth had he managed to secure an invitation to join them? She was delighted. With him in their company, she wouldn’t feel nearly so alone. She smiled as he climbed into the conveyance, tipped his hat to the earl and countess, and seated himself between Lady Rossbury and a rosy-faced Jemima.
James followed last. After placing his hat on the shelf, he sat next to Emma. It was a blessing he hadn’t sat opposite, for then she’d have had to spend the whole journey avoiding his gaze. As it was, it was torture having him so physically close…but so cruelly distant in attitude.
As the coach lurched off on its journey to Stourhead, she was achingly aware of him—of the long legs encased in perfectly polished Hessians, of the strong, capable hands that rested against his muscled thighs. How she wanted to take his hand and hold it against her cheek! How she longed to press her lips to his knuckles and tell him she loved him, that Charles had never meant anything to her, and that he must trust her.
The torture became even more poignant when James started naming the landmarks of interest along the way. He angled toward her, leaned forward, and pointed out the window. The breeze wafted the smell of his spicy cologne over her, mingled with the musky scent of his soap and shaving cream. As he leaned across, pressing against her, a heat radiated from his body that set her cheeks afire.
Wretched man! Was he doing it on purpose, as punishment for telling him about Charles’s kiss?
Finally, when their surroundings resolved into rolling green countryside with nothing of note to describe, he settled back in his seat. The gap between them seemed to fill with chill air, and she sighed and fiddled with the tassels on her reticule.
Once or twice she risked a sideways glance, but his gaze was shuttered and his expression cool. Indeed, no one observing him now could ever imagine the wicked glint in his eye when he’d sucked her finger or the passionate tremor in his body when he’d kissed her.
He was everything an English aristocrat should be—remote, proud, unobtainable.
Suddenly, he took her hand and pressed something into it. She turned with a small gasp but received a warning frown. Pulse racing, she schooled her face to nonchalance and tucked the folded paper surreptitiously into her glove.
Hope sprang afresh. If he was sending her secret messages, he must still nurse some feelings for her.
Mustn’t he?
After giving her the note he became more relaxed, making the rest of the journey less of a trial. For him. But for her it had the opposite effect. The little piece of paper felt as if it were burning a hole through her flesh, and she feared she might be frazzled to a cinder long before she ever had a chance to read it.
Luckily, their coach made good speed, and soon they were rattling over the graveled driveway toward Stourhead, the estate of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, their host.
The building was relatively new and very impressive—even the normally imperturbable Earl and Countess of Rossbury appeared excited. As they drew up in front of the elegant facade, Emma experienced a rush of pleasure. This was her first house party in years, and she couldn’t wait to meet the fascinating Richard Colt Hoare—a man well-known for his scholarly abilities, his antiquarian interests, and his superb collection of books.
Even if there was nothing else to please her here, she could find solace in the library.
James descended from the carriage first. He reached up to hold Jemima around the waist, swinging her to the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. Emma’s heart leaped in anticipation, but his treatment of her person was much more respectful—and cold. He just gave her his hand to help her down the steps. Even through the barrier of her glove, she felt the heat of his touch like a bolt of electricity that made her nerves sizzle. She looked up to see if he was similarly affected, but his expression gave nothing away.
Soon they were all disembarked, and a bevy of servants swarmed around them, collecting parasols, hat boxes, bags, and mantles, and then they were ushered out of the harsh August sunlight into the shadowy atrium of Stourhead House.
They were greeted by their host, shown to their rooms, and treated to some light and very welcome refreshment—all of which activities seemed to take hours.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that Emma finally had a moment to herself to read James’s note.
The paper trembled in her fingers as she opened it, and her heart thundered fit to deafen her. But the note was depressingly brief.
Four o’clock, Rhododendron Walk.
That was all it said.
Whatever was the time? Her pendant watch proclaimed it to be half past three—a fact confirmed moments later by the confident clanging of a long-case clock on the landing. Only half an hour to go, and she had no idea where the rhododendron walk was.
There wasn’t a moment to lose.
Grabbing up a pencil, she jotted a quick note to Jemima to say she’d gone out to take the air. Then seizing up her parasol and bonnet, she chased out in search of a servant to direct her to the rhododendron walk.
Her heart was too full of expectation over her tryst with James to appreciate her surroundings. She barely noticed the beauteous grandeur of the gardens, the well-tended paths, or the range and variety of young trees. Nor did she stop to enjoy a view of the lake, which glinted teasingly at her through gaps in the foliage.
When she reached the rhododendron walk, she saw the unmistakable erect figure of the viscount swinging a walking cane abstractedly at a thistle. She slowed her step, lifted her parasol to shade her face, and stepped forward as unhurriedly as she could manage.
James ceased his fidgeting as soon as he saw her and strode in her direction, hailing her with the words, “Good afternoon, Miss d’Ibert. An admirable spot, is it not?”
As they came together, he smiled briefly but didn’t take her arm, just fell into step beside her so they could stroll among the glossy rhododendrons.
“I apologize for my skullduggery in bringing you out here,” he said evenly, “but I needed to talk to you alone as soon as possible.”
Her heart flipped over. Was he going to propose again? No, his manner was too cold. She was still at risk of losing him.
She steeled herself against whatever hurt he might knowingly—or otherwise—be about to inflict.
He said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of including your brother in our party. He has become essential to my cousin’s happiness, it seems. In fact, I would call him her personal physician, though unpaid. I only hope she won’t distract him too much from his studies.”
Why were they talking about George? Emma wanted to talk about them.
“Oh well. I’m certain he’ll return to Bristol after this house party full of vigor and ready to resume his career,” she managed.
“I did have an ulterior motive.”
Good. She’d hoped that might be the case.
He went on, “I thought you might appreciate his moral support when a certain event takes place. He’s a good listener and advisor, I collect.”
A certain event?
What
event?
Her steps slowed, and she looked up at him in dread. Was he going to announce his engagement to…someone else?
No, that was a happy event. He hadn’t said “happy.” She was on tenterhooks, waiting for him to explain.
He halted and turned to face her.
She blinked up at him, waiting for the hammer blow to fall.
“I’ve seen to it that Charles Keane received an invitation,” he said. “No, don’t look so horrified. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but I wanted things settled between all of us. I cannot know if you and I are to be friends or enemies until you’ve spoken to Charles. You said you wished to, so I’ve made it possible. If it were left to him you might not see him for weeks. As you know, he’s very dilatory in his dealings with women. But I must say no more on that subject—I don’t wish to influence you against him, as he is still my friend. Arrange things between yourselves. I’ll interfere no further.”
Panic seized her. Charles? Here? He could ruin everything!
If he hadn’t done so already.
She wanted to cry, “Please, interfere! Rescue me from his vile machinations!” But James’s expression was so forbidding she dared not speak.
Repressing the sob that welled up in her chest, she said, “Well, you seem to have everything organized to your satisfaction. Whether Charles will dance to your tune is yet to be seen.”
“Oh, he’ll come. That’s a certainty. When I said invited I meant blackmailed. He’ll be here in time for dinner tonight. Now, I think we’ve spent enough time alone. I wouldn’t want to give the gossips any further grist for their mill. Adieu.”
With that, he tipped his hat to her and strode off up the rhododendron walk and into the gardens.
She stared after him, devastated. The man she yearned for so much it hurt, the man with whom she’d fallen achingly, unbearably in love, had walked away from her and left the field open to his rival.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Emma chose her finest gown to wear for dinner that night. It was muslin, shot through with copper thread that glittered when she moved. This was accompanied by a satin wrap in rich burgundy that complemented the highlights in her chestnut hair, and a necklace of garnets borrowed from Countess Rossbury.
The dining room was easily as impressive as that at Birney House, flashing with cut glass chandeliers and candelabra, gilded pier glasses, and flickering tea lights to illuminate the table itself. Their host, Sir Richard Colt Hoare, was shy but a total gentleman, and the children of his extended family who came to say their goodnights before the company sat down were utterly charming.
Emma sat between George and an elderly former general who regaled her with tales of the Spanish Campaigns. James was placed next to Colt Hoare himself, and they must have had a great deal of common ground, for they remained deep in conversation throughout the meal.
She looked about for Charles, praying he’d ignored James’s summons. Alas, whatever James had said to him had done the trick—Charles was at the table, bracketed by Jemima and Lady Rossbury. He was leaning close to the latter, evidently doing his best to amuse her with some scandalous on-dit, but even his charm and wit brought no more than the wisp of a smile to her face.
When he caught Emma watching, he winked at her and broke into a feral grin that promised all kinds of delicious wickedness when they were next alone.
She turned away, hating him. He’d ruined her chances and even her friendship with James, and the sooner she crushed his pretensions, the better. Somehow, in time, she would endeavor to bring James round. She’d find a way to rekindle what had sparked between them—the flare of passion that had promised to become an inferno. It was too precious to let slip through her fingers.
Not that James was giving her any cause to hope. She glanced at him often and sometimes caught him subjecting her to an intense, thoughtful stare. But when he met her eye, he didn’t smile or even look self-conscious. He just acknowledged her attention, then looked elsewhere.
The more he snubbed her, the greater her frustration grew. And her despair. She wanted to take him outside and shake him until his teeth rattled, tell him to stop thinking the worst of her, but to have faith in her, and to brush off Charles’s behavior as a minor irritant.
But a large part of her warned that she might well have lost James forever. She’d hoped he would stand his ground and fight for her. For them. But he was just giving in and bowing out, exactly as he had with Belinda.
After dinner, when the gathering crowded into the music room, she expected either Charles or James to seek her out, but neither did. Instead, it was her brother George, who, to her great consternation, insisted she sit at the pianoforte to demonstrate how much better her playing had become. Sir Richard, overhearing this, added his own exhortations, so she was forced to perform before the entire room.
As she concentrated on working her way through the first piece without making any errors, she could see James from the corner of her eye. He sat very still, slightly forward in his chair, gazing at her with an intensity that brought a flush to her cheek. She willed her audience to blame it on modesty and forced herself to play on, regardless of his scrutiny.
Her mind flew back to the time when he’d sat and sketched her, when she’d felt his perusal like a caress, as if he were tracing every feature with his finger, stroking every hollow, his touch lingering in every curve.
Curse it! Would this piece never end? As soon as she hit the last note, she leaped up from the pianoforte, inviting Jemima to take over. Then she scurried off to find a chair at the back of the room near an open doorway, and let the light breeze cool her burning cheeks.
From her new position, she subjected James to the same scrutiny he’d fixed on her. But alas, the longer she looked at him, the more handsome and desirable he became.
And all the more beyond her reach.
There were pretty young women aplenty at the house party, any of whom could make a suitable bride for a future earl. Why would he waste his time on Emma, with her ruined family, her embarrassing term as a servant, and her unfortunate ability to hurt him when he was at his most vulnerable?
These unhappy thoughts continued to assail her an hour later as she lay in the big bed she was sharing with Jemima. The girl was an excellent sleeper and went out like a flame in a breeze, but Emma lay staring up at the heavy canopy long after the candles had been extinguished and all sound of activity in the house had ceased.
She wondered where James was sleeping. Was he anywhere close by? For all she knew, he might be in the next room, just the other side of the elegantly papered wall, staring up at the invisible stars just as she was, unable to sleep with the heat and the excitement.
No, probably not. He was no stranger to excitement, parties, or grand dinners. If he was awake at all, he might be mentally shuffling through the relative charms of the other young ladies in the company. Or he might be thinking how disappointing Emma’s playing had been, or finding fault with her features, having examined them so minutely tonight. Perhaps he was lying in his bed reading one of the hundreds of tomes available in Colt Hoare’s library, his thoughts tangled in French history or ensnared in the arithmetic of Palladian architecture.
Bother! Why hadn’t she thought to fetch a book? It would be better than just lying here, goaded by her roiling thoughts.
Lord, was this what love felt like?
Or was it obsession?
Whatever it was, the need was building up in her so powerfully that she feared if she couldn’t secure James’s affections, she’d go mad.
And that madness would provoke her to act. Even if it meant doing something…
Well, something rather scandalous.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The following day, to James’s relief, their host arranged a picnic luncheon for his guests on the lawn by the lake. This gave James an excuse to wander about outside and avoid unwanted conversations. He lurked at the edge of the activity, observing and—though he hated to admit
it—waiting for Emma to appear.
He’d found he couldn’t be at rest if he didn’t know where she was and with whom. The idea of her being in company with Charles was tearing him apart, but he’d promised himself not to interfere. For his own peace of mind.
Charles must be given the chance to redeem himself by making an offer to Emma.
And Emma must be free to choose between her two suitors.
James tried to distract himself by watching the small army of servants clear the goose droppings from the grass and shoo the waterfowl to the island in the middle of the lake. Various blankets, tablecloths, and picnic tables were then set up near the shore. A few brave coots swam back and cronked crossly at the disruption, but ultimately they gave up, allowing tranquility to return.
Ah, more guests were coming out of the house. Was she among them?
Yes, she was.
His breath caught as he gazed at her, then he forced himself to turn away. He might be behaving like a lovesick idiot, but he still had his pride.
If she refused Charles, should he court her again? Had he embarrassed her with the strength of his feelings, because they were feelings she felt unable to return? After all, she hadn’t accepted his proposal as he’d expected, but had begged for time to consider. Had he disgusted her with his unbridled passion? Why, he’d practically thrown himself at her that night at Sydney Gardens—she must have thought him a complete rake to seize and kiss her in a public place like that, quite out of the blue.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. No, his future courtship of Miss Emma d’Ibert would be subtle, slow, and persuasive. He’d rein back his desires and court her gently, politely, as a true gentleman should a lady.
Assuming she refused Charles.
But what if the tables were turned on him, and she accepted Charles, despite her protestations to the contrary?
That outcome was unthinkable. He might just have to call Charles out and shoot him. That would solve the issue nicely.
Vanquishing the Viscount Page 18