James and George were both seated next to Colt Hoare at the head of the table, like medieval nobles on either side of their king. They were feted by one and all. Their plates, like cornucopias, were never empty, and their glasses were refilled as if by magic.
Even when the meal was over, Emma found it impossible to get near James. Everyone was queuing up to praise his Herculean exploits, despite his assurances that it had been no trouble whatsoever. Sometimes he sent her a speaking look above the heads of his admirers, and she smiled back as encouragingly as she could, willing him to see her love reflected in her eyes.
There was no musical interlude after dinner. Emma joined the ladies, but the night was too hot for much activity. Mostly they just sat about, chatting and fanning themselves as they waited for the gentlemen to join them for a hand or two of cards.
It would have been perfect if she could have joined James’s table, but alas, the hero of the day was so popular he was instantly corralled by his host and his proud parents. Emma had to settle for a game of whist with George, the elderly general, and the mother of one of the boating accident girls—who really should have been put to bed with a generous dose of laudanum, as she was too unsettled by her experience to play her hand properly.
The longer Emma had to wait for access to James, the greater her frustration grew. Of course, she couldn’t help being jealous of all the admiring glances cast his way. Since his anticipated engagement to Belinda Carslake had failed to happen, he was once again fair game for all the matchmaking mamas and simpering debutantes.
Each time her need for him became too immense, Emma reminded herself he’d carried her portrait next to his heart for months. That had to count for something. He had also sacrificed a longstanding friendship over her.
And he’d already asked her to marry him—even though, much to her disappointment, he hadn’t repeated the offer.
Was it because they’d never found themselves alone? Or did he have no intention of asking her again? Her heart quailed at the devastating thought.
At last the interminable evening was over. She went upstairs arm in arm with Jemima, tasting the bitter gall of defeat. She hadn’t managed to do anything more than exchange “good nights” with James.
She lay on the bed, eyes wide open, wound up like a clock with a stuck pendulum. There was nowhere for all her pent-up energy to go, and her mind refused to shut down.
Once again, Jemima had no such difficulty. The young girl’s breathing was gentle and regular, and not even Emma’s continued tossing and turning disturbed her slumber.
Finally, Emma realized there was only one thing she could do.
And it needed to be done quickly, before her bravado deserted her.
She must go to James and pray he wouldn’t send her away.
Chapter Forty
Fortunately, Emma encountered no one as she tiptoed down the hallway, clad only in her nightgown and a paisley shawl. Her way was illuminated by the lamps dotted along the corridors with their wicks turned down low.
She didn’t bother to tap on James’s door. She just let herself in and waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
There was a rustle from the bed. Suddenly she found herself in a steely embrace that clamped her arms to her sides. Then he touched her hair, and she felt his body relax.
“Emma?” James whispered.
“Who else?” she queried as he stepped back, holding her at arm’s length. “I’d hate to think you were expecting some other woman to invade your room in the dead of night.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he said, and she could almost taste his wicked grin.
“I’m shocked!” she replied, running her hands over the firm muscle of his forearms, tamping down her sharp jealousy that she wasn’t the first to be so bold with him.
Until she made out the shape of him in the thin moonlight that filtered through the drapes.
It was pretty clear he was naked.
The shutters were open, allowing a soft breeze to waft the curtains and tease the ends of her hair.
“Shocked? Yes, there have been one or two widows who taught me a great deal. But none of them touched my heart. You have something no other woman has ever had, or could ever hope for—not even Belinda Carslake. You’ve taught me the true meaning of love. My heart is yours and yours alone. Forever.”
Joy, like golden light from a thousand stars, flooded through her at his words. This was exactly what she’d so fervently hoped for. He still loved her, even after the pain she’d subjected him to.
But still, she had to ask, “Not even Miss Carslake? You were ready to propose to her.”
“Thank heaven you rescued me from that, however inadvertently. It was a foolish infatuation. I’ve forgotten her already.”
“Thank heaven,” Emma echoed. This man had the pick of the entire ton, yet he’d fallen for her—he wanted only her.
“And I’ve forgotten Elias Hartley,” she whispered.
“Hmm?”
“Oh, nothing,” she replied, grinning to herself. She was happier than she could express in words. But maybe there was another way.
James reached out and stroked her hair. “Silky and so, so soft,” he murmured.
He was close enough for her to touch his body…but did she dare? She slid her hands up to his biceps and stroked his shoulders. “Smooth but hard, and so, so strong,” she teased.
Chuckling, he ran his fingers through her hair and smoothed his hands over her shoulders. “Emma, you must go back to your room,” he said, but his voice was more a caress than a command.
So soon? But he loved her, and she wanted to find out more about what that meant. She shook her head. “No. I want to talk.”
“It’s the middle of the night, you’re in my room wearing only your nightgown, and I’m wearing nothing. Two reputations hang in the balance here. I care not a fig for mine, but yours is very important to me. You must go before we’re caught.”
“But I need you to ask me something.” She moved toward him again and laid a trembling hand on either side of his trim waist. He felt…wonderful. And the urge to look down, and explore lower, was almost irresistible.
With a groan, he leaned forward, nuzzling at her neck, and his hands fastened around her waist, pressing her closer. “Temptress,” he said huskily. “What are you doing to me?”
“I’ve been trying to get close to you all day, but you were constantly surrounded. What’s this?”
While she was speaking, her hands had started an exploration all on their own and discovered a patch of shiny skin on his back.
“Saber cut. And before you ask, I was not running away from the fight. I’d just turned to face another assailant when this coward struck me in the back. The wound has healed well—it just itches sometimes.”
“I’m sure George could find you an ointment for that,” she offered as she slid her hands over the hard muscle of James’s back and up to his shoulder blades. His body was fascinating, magnetic, mysterious…and she wanted it to be hers alone.
But there was still something that needed to be settled.
“What am I supposed to be asking you?” James queried. “You’re making it difficult to concentrate.”
Surely, he knew? “Don’t tease me, James. It isn’t fair!” she pleaded.
“Oh yes, I remember now. I’m meant to be asking you to marry me. Will you?”
Finally. She pulled him close, burying her face against his chest. “Yes, of course I will.”
“Excellent. Now, be a good girl and go back to bed.”
She blinked. Was that all?
No. She couldn’t possibly leave just yet. “Please let me stay a while. Aren’t you cold?”
“On a night like this? Why do you think I’m sleeping naked?”
She smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t…want me to warm you again.”
He took a sharp breath, grasped her by the shoulders, and looked down at her. “What do you mean, again?”
“Do you not remember? When you had the ague, while the cold paroxysm was upon you, you demanded I get into the bed and warm you.”
He let out a low whistle, and she wished there was enough light to make out his expression. He’d forgotten. Or did he really think she was Belinda that night? It mattered.
It mattered more than she cared to admit.
“So it wasn’t just a dream,” he said at length. “I couldn’t bring myself to believe it was true, that you’d risk your reputation for me.”
“You do remember. You knew it was me?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You called me Belinda.”
His hands tensed on her shoulders. “How awful must you have felt when I said that. I’m so sorry. In my defense, I was delirious. But even if I couldn’t remember your name at the time, I knew exactly who you were. Why didn’t you say something? Why leave me thinking I’d imagined it? I would have offered for you straightaway.”
What a relief it was to hear those sweet words fall from his lips! She had longed to be able to treasure that moment, when they’d first come together so deliciously, but him calling her by the wrong name had ruined it completely.
Now, at last, she could hope to experience more of that delectable intimacy. With a man who truly loved her.
“Oh, my darling, how horrid you must have thought me.” He drew her against him and wrapped his arms around her, resting his cheek against her hair. “But I fear you already disliked me. In fact, I think you hated me.”
“No more than you hated me,” she said, remembering with a shudder the way he’d looked at her when he first saw her at Figheldene.
“I could never hate you. I was angry, yes, but I soon got over that. You’re so special, so precious to me. To think I nearly lost you to Charles!”
Poor, silly, foolish James! If he was as deeply in love with her as he professed to be, he must have been devastated when she showed him the announcement in the newspaper.
She snaked her arms around his flanks and held him tightly. “Charles was never a threat to you,” she said, enjoying the sumptuous scent of James’s skin as she burrowed closer. She could hold him like this forever and never tire of it. “You’re a hundred times the man he is,” she assured him. “A thousand times.”
He responded with a low growl. “Before you find out just how much of a man I am, dearest one, I think you’d better get back to your own bed.”
Couldn’t she just stay here with him? She wanted to hold him closer, feel more of him, extend this stolen moment to make up for all the time they’d wasted in foolish misunderstandings and blinkered pride.
“It’s all right,” she said, letting her lips brush tantalizingly across his skin. “I won’t be missed. Jemima sleeps like a log. And anyway, I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nor could I. It’s too hot, and it’s been a very…stimulating day.”
It had been stimulating. And in her opinion, it still was. “You were very much the hero, James,” she said, full of pride for him.
“Thank you, my love, but as I keep telling everyone, it was nothing. Indeed, I’m being more of a hero now than I was then. Have you the faintest idea how much effort it’s costing me not to pull you down onto the bed and ruin you once and for all?”
That sounded like a splendid idea. She couldn’t keep the mischief out of her voice when she said, “I’m already ruined, just by being here. I was ruined when I took you in my arms at Tresham. The deed, in the eyes of the world, is already done. And if we’re soon to be man and wife—”
There was no need to finish her sentence. She could tell by the quiver that ran through his body, he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Minx! One minute you’re a ministering angel, another you’re a water sprite, and now I find you can be a complete wanton.”
The last word was whispered close to her ear, so she turned her head and ran her tongue over the rough surface of his stubbled jaw. He moaned softly and slid his tongue over her lips.
She dug her hands deep into his thick, wavy hair, and stretched up to claim his mouth properly, pressing her lips hungrily against his.
He needed no further invitation. Thank heavens.
Her body quivered as his mouth worked its magic on her, waking every sense, invigorating every nerve. There was nothing that mattered in all the world but this man and his kiss.
His hands found the open neck of her nightgown and traced rivers of heat along her collarbone and up the column of her throat.
But he pulled back, murmuring, “I want you so much. But not until I’ve got a ring on your finger. I promised myself that I’d court you slowly, Emma, and I want to savor every moment we spend together. I won’t let lust take over. You mean more to me than that.”
Her heart swelled at this, and tears pricked her eyes. Of all the women he’d known before, of all the toasts of Society and unmarried beauties, he’d chosen her, plain Miss Emma d’Ibert, to be his bride.
“Then just hold me,” she said, “and tell me exactly how much I mean to you.”
“You are the sun and the moon to me,” he said. “You are the stars that illuminate my world and the fire that warms my soul.”
Her heart glowed. James was the center of her world, the focus of all her care, and she couldn’t imagine feeling this way about any other man.
This was love, true love, divine and perfect, and she would do all she could to prove it to him. Even if it took a whole lifetime.
Epilogue
Emma and James’s wedding took place in early November, in the latter part of autumn when the trees were almost bare. They were married in the little church adjoining Birney House. To Emma’s delight, large numbers of the ton attended, and no one asked any awkward questions about where she’d been hiding herself these past few years.
In the months leading up to the wedding, she’d remained in the household of the Earl and Countess of Rossbury. The countess warmed to her considerably after her son announced his news and confided in Emma that she’d always thought that—with a little careful nurturing—she might turn out well. Emma accepted this faint praise with equanimity. Now that she was sure of James’s love, nothing could dim her happiness.
Shortly before the wedding, she learned Charles Keane had quit the country. Apparently bored with the restrictions of English Society, he’d left for India, to join the East India Company in their wars against the Maratha Empire, and hopefully make a fortune for himself—as Robert Cornwallis had done. The rest of the Keane family, bound forever to keep the secret of Emma’s service in their household, came to the wedding, and the reunion with Mary and a much-recovered Willie added to her joy.
That entire day, her heart was so full she feared it might burst.
James had already taken her to inspect his estates at Westwater and Langley. Both were so delightful that she couldn’t choose a preferred place of residence—they agreed they could be equally happy at each. But there was one place which remained a mystery to Emma, and that was the destination of their bridal trip.
The day of their departure was dry and fine, with a chill wind rattling the last of the leaves. Bundled up in traveling rugs, she sat huddled close to her new husband, trying—and failing—to get him to say where they were going.
His blue-gray eyes were alight with his secret, but he refused to say a word, just looked at her teasingly and kissed her thoroughly each time she was inclined to pout. When the coach set out northward, she started guessing. Perhaps they were going to Wales, or the Marches, or maybe even Scotland—though to travel that far so late in the year was a daunting prospect.
Then, as the farms and woods they were passing became increasingly familiar, she sat forward in her seat, exclaiming, “Why, this is the way to Tresham! Are you taking me home?”
“Indeed. I wanted you to see what I’ve done with the place.”
She stared out of the window, utterly conflicted, as the neatly clipped hedges flew past. Why did James want her to see
all the alterations he’d made to her home? He knew she preferred it as it had been, that she’d hated his plans to gut it and change it beyond recognition. This was most insensitive of him.
Soon, the old brick chimneys of the house poked up above the trees. Pungent wood-smoke issued from their tops.
Her heart froze. How was she to keep her countenance in front of all the veterans? She didn’t want them to think she resented their presence. She’d have to summon up all the sangfroid she could manage.
But the place was strangely quiet. As James handed her down from the coach, she noticed a few men working in the gardens, raking over the flowerbeds and deadheading the last of the roses. Were these some of the veterans, those still fit enough to do physical labor?
She was even more puzzled when they entered the Great Hall. Instead of a group of uniformed nurses, they were met by a staff of liveried servants who scurried out to fetch their bags from the carriage.
She turned to her husband questioningly, but he just gave her one of those looks that turned her insides to hot butter and angled his head toward the front parlor.
A blazing fire greeted them from the freshly swept hearth, and as she looked around, she realized the room was filled with familiar furniture—furniture her family had been forced to sell over the last few years.
She gazed up at James, who was looking smug. “I traced it,” he informed her with a grin. “Every last scrap of it, and bought it all back. A team of upholsterers has been hard at work, mending, darning, re-covering—so everything’s good as new. I’ve had to make a few concessions to fashion and comfort, but you’ll find the house much as it was long before you ever left for Figheldene.”
“But what— Why—?” She took his hand to steady herself. “This doesn’t seem like a house for soldiers.”
“No, my love. The subscribers have agreed to pay for a new hospital on the outskirts of Bath. I convinced them the veterans would rather be within reach of the healthy amenities and diversions of the city. So, Tresham can be our home now. If you wish it, that is.”
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