A Lord's Flaming Return: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Henrietta Harding

  But she knew it would never be that simple for her. Watching him with another lady was like a knife repeatedly stabbing her heart. Miserably she tried to keep the tears at bay. She knew she was being ridiculous but just could not help it. What was wrong with her?

  He deserted you in the cruellest way. He left you after making love with you … promising to make you his wife. And then he tells you an unlikely story to justify why he left you. You should not care what he does with any other lady at all. In fact, you should feel sorry for her.

  The bell sounded, signalling that intermission was over and they should return to their seats. Emmeline turned and walked quickly back through the crowd, almost elbowing people in her haste to escape him.

  When the lights had dimmed again, and the performance commenced, she resolutely faced the stage, not turning her head once in his direction. She blinked back the tears, feeling a painful lump thickening in her throat.

  Suddenly, she could take it no more.

  “I feel a little faint, Mama,” she whispered to her mother, sitting beside her. “I think I shall wait in the carriage if it is alright with you …”

  Mrs Vaughan looked askance. “Can you not just sit in the foyer and see if it passes, Emmeline? It shall be rather a while before the evening ends …”

  “I do not mind, Mama,” she whispered, her heart beating fast.

  Her mother sighed. “Very well, then. Try not to make too much of a racquet on your way out.” She turned back to the stage.

  Olivia glanced at her curiously as she made her along the row towards the exit. She smiled at her sister but didn’t stop. Olivia would only want to know what was going on, and she did not wish to disturb anyone more than she already had.

  When she was at the theatre door, she stopped to gaze back at the stage one last time. It was a pity. She had been enjoying the evening … as much as she was able in her preoccupied state.

  Her heart lurched, for Benedict had turned in his seat and was gazing straight at her. Their eyes met for a brief moment before she opened the door, scurrying through the foyer to the carriage. She felt as if she had just been scorched by fire.

  ***

  Later that night, when the evening had ended, and they were home, Olivia came into her chambers, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Why did you leave the theatre?” she asked, without preamble. “Did it have something to do with Lord Montagu?”

  Emmeline sighed, putting down her hairbrush. They were both in their nightgowns, ready for bed. She felt a stab of guilt. Poor Olivia, having to deal with her problems all the time.

  “I suppose it did,” she said slowly. She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “It was just hard for me … watching him flirting so openly with Lady Henrietta.”

  There. She had said it. She had admitted her jealousy. It was ugly, and it was misplaced, but it was out in the open now.

  Olivia blinked rapidly. “Was he? I saw the lady falling over him … but as to whether he was encouraging it, I cannot say.”

  Emmeline’s face tightened. “He did not seem to be discouraging it. They could barely take their eyes off one another for the entire evening.”

  Olivia sighed heavily, sitting down upon the bed. “You still have deep feelings for him, don’t you? They have not diminished at all with time.”

  Emmeline reddened. “I suppose I still do.” She hesitated again, trying to find the words. “When you have once loved someone so deeply, Liv, it is hard to let it go. Even when they have hurt you terribly. Even when you know that it is foolish to feel them.”

  Olivia eyed her curiously. “You told me that he called here the other day when we were out. But you have not told me what he came here to say.”

  Emmeline laughed shortly. “He came to try to convince me that he never wanted to leave me,” she said slowly. “He said that he always loved me and meant to make me his wife …”

  “So … what happened?” Olivia’s voice was gentle.

  Emmeline laughed again. It came out as a brittle sound. “He told me he wrote me a letter before he left the district, which was misplaced,” she replied. “And that he was in India in the following years. Apparently, he was unable to write to me at all from there.” She paused. “I do not believe a word of it, of course.”

  Olivia looked intrigued. “India? But that could be true, Emme. Their family business is conducted there, after all …”

  “Yes, it is,” admitted Emmeline, taking a deep breath. “But there is still a postal service from India to England, Liv. Why could he not have written to me – even once – during that whole time?”

  “Did he say what he was doing there? Why he could not write to you?”

  Emmeline shook her head. “He clammed up when I asked him, saying he could not speak of it.” She smiled grimly. “It is all lies. If it were somehow true, why would he not just explain himself further?”

  Olivia looked pensive. “Perhaps something terrible happened to him over there. It is a rather harsh place from what I have been told.” She shuddered. “Full of outposts and wars and conflict …”

  “Why are you defending him?” Emmeline gazed at her sister speculatively. “I thought you would be the first to say that he is evidently making excuses. It is all rather farfetched. Especially the excuse of the misplaced letter.”

  “Maybe,” said Olivia, frowning. “But … then again, perhaps because it is so implausible, it could just be the truth.” She paused. “He claims that he did indeed love you and wanted to marry you? Why would he bother to call upon you to tell you such a thing if it was not the truth?”

  “Because he is feeling guilty about it,” said Emmeline quickly. “Because he has seen me again, and it has made him feel bad. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  Olivia pursed her lips. “I am not so sure about that, Emme,” she said slowly. “I have observed how often he stares at you when he thinks you are not looking.” She took a deep breath. “He watches you like a parched man gawping at a glass of water.”

  Emmeline’s heart started to race. She opened her mouth to refute her sister, but no words came out. Her mouth felt as dry as a bone.

  It wasn’t true – Olivia was just being fanciful. She was only saying it because she knew their history, because she was looking for some connection between them. Benedict didn’t have any feelings for her anymore … if indeed he ever had.

  He didn’t want to be anywhere near her – that was as obvious as the nose on her face. Even when he had called upon her that day, claiming he had indeed loved her, he had not renewed those feelings. He had not said that he wanted them to be together. He had hightailed it out of the house so quickly it was a wonder he hadn’t left dust in his wake.

  But then … she remembered how his dark eyes had shone as he stroked her face. And suddenly, she was not so sure about anything, any longer.

  Chapter 13

  Benedict walked to the furthest point of the gardens at Derby Hall, gazing out desolately at the landscape. He had just excused himself from a business meeting in his uncle’s study. His stomach was churning into knots, and he simply couldn’t concentrate on anything.

  He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the cool air reached his lungs. All he could think about was Emmeline.

  He opened his eyes again, searching for Lambeth House in the distance. There it was. Her home. How he wished he could just grab a horse and ride over there again. Tell her that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard he tried. Tell her that she still enchanted his senses just the same as she always had.

  His heart tightened. But what would be the point of that? She didn’t believe a word he had told her the other day. They had not spoken at all at the theatre the previous evening; he had not approached her, but she had not approached him either. No, Emmeline Vaughan despised him as strongly as ever. He may as well have saved his breath in telling her about the mislaid letter.

  Disconcertedly, he strode the perimeter of the garden, trying to make
sense of it all. He should never have come back to this district. He should have known that it would not be as clear cut as he had hoped, that he might see her again and simply wish her the best. No, she had stirred up everything he had thought long dead within him.

  She had made him yearn again for a life he could never have. A life that he thought he had long ago resigned himself to having lost.

  He turned. Ralph was approaching him.

  “Just stretching your legs, old chap?” called his cousin, as soon as he was close enough.

  Benedict smiled faintly. “I needed some air. Uncle’s study can get quite stuffy.”

  Ralph nodded, falling into step beside him. “You seem distracted,” said his cousin, watching him carefully. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Miss Emmeline Vaughan, by any chance?”

  Benedict felt shocked. He had never confided in his cousin about what had happened between him and Emmeline. Not once.

  “Why would you say such a thing?” He hoped his voice was steady.

  Ralph sighed. “Ben, I am not a fool. I see the way you look at her. You can barely drag your eyes away from her whenever she is around.”

  Benedict smiled ruefully. “I did not realise it was that obvious.”

  Ralph grinned. “Well, it is. And you cannot fool me that you like Lady Henrietta Wynn either, despite your desperate attempts to flirt with her last evening. What exactly is going on?”

  Benedict was silent for a moment, gazing out over the landscape again. No, he had never confided in his cousin about Emmeline, not even once, during their years of captivity. It had been too painful, and besides, he had tried so very hard to forget her. But perhaps the moment had finally come to tell Ralph.

  “You are right on both counts,” he admitted slowly. “I do not have any interest in Lady Henrietta.” He took a deep breath. “But Miss Emmeline Vaughan is another story again.”

  His cousin gazed at him curiously. “Tell me.”

  Benedict took another deep breath. “I was resident here for a short time while you were in India,” he said quietly. “Helping Uncle Richard with the business. I met Emmeline during that time … and we embarked on quite an intense love affair.”

  Ralph’s eyes widened. “An affair? But she seems so prim and proper …”

  Benedict smiled slightly. “Still waters run deep,” he said slowly. “Emmeline is a very passionate woman.” He paused. “We fell deeply in love. I wanted to make her my wife, but I could not declare for her at that time before I came into my majority. Father’s will stipulated I could not have access to my entire inheritance before the age of five and twenty …”

  “I recall that,” said Ralph, frowning slightly. “And a lot of it was tied up in the business as well, wasn’t it?”

  Benedict nodded. “I was quite a wealthy man on paper, but not in actual life,” he said slowly. “Not enough to support a wife at that time.” He hesitated. “I asked Emmeline to wait for me, and she said that she would.”

  Ralph was silent for a moment. “It is my fault, isn’t it? If you had not had to run to India to save me, you would have married her by now.”

  Benedict swore underneath his breath. “You know I do not blame you, Ralph. You did not ask to be kidnapped. It is just the way life played out.” He sighed heavily. “And it was all a mess from start to finish. I wrote her a letter explaining why I had to leave before I left Derby Hall, but she never received it. I asked Brady to send it, and he went and broke his leg, misplacing the letter …”

  “What?” Ralph shook his head disbelievingly.

  “It is true,” sighed Benedict. “And then I was taken prisoner as well. You know the rest.” He stared glumly at his cousin. “It wasn’t as if we had access to ink and parchment in that mud hut. To cut a long story short, she thought I deserted her – that I never loved her the way I claimed to.”

  Ralph blinked. “Well, explain it to her. Tell her that it wasn’t like that …”

  “I have tried … as much as I am able,” he interrupted wearily. “I could not speak of what truly happened to us in India. But I did explain that I could not write to her during that time. She does not believe a word of it, and I can hardly blame her. It all sounds so improbable as to be fiction.” He paused. “No, it is all for the best anyway, Ralph. I have nothing to offer her anymore …”

  “What do you mean?” Ralph’s voice was incredulous. “You have everything to offer her. You have reached your majority and are now a very wealthy man. You have your life and your freedom and your health. Why would you say such a thing?”

  Benedict was silent for a moment. Then he sighed, turning back to his cousin.

  “I may have all those things,” he replied slowly. “But I cannot love a woman any longer.” He struggled to find the exact words. “India changed me – hollowed me out so I feel … numb in some way. I am not the same man who left England’s shores all those years ago. I cannot love as I once could. I truly do not have anything to offer such a fine woman as Emmeline.”

  Ralph gaped at him. “That is madness,” he whispered. “Yes, India changed you. How could it not, after all that we went through? It changed me too.” He took a deep breath. “But you are looking at it the wrong way entirely. Can you not see that you deserve your chance at happiness with the woman you love after all you have endured? That perhaps you survived to have this opportunity again?”

  Benedict gazed at his cousin. A soft yearning filled him. If only it were as simple as that. If only he could believe what Ralph was telling him – that the stars had aligned at long last and offered up the one thing that he had always wanted.

  But it wasn’t that simple. It was so complex as to be a tangled web. His emotions were frozen. Yes, he still felt the same attraction to Emmeline that he always had, but love was beyond him. He simply could not offer her the companionship she deserved any longer. India had drained it all out of him. He was a shell of the man he had once been. Why couldn’t Ralph understand that? He had been there too. He had been through the same experience.

  “You should tell her everything,” declared Ralph suddenly. “Tell her what happened to you in India … why you truly could not write to her. If she is half the woman you claim she is, she will understand and forgive you for it.”

  Benedict rubbed a hand over his face. “Ralph, I know that you mean well …”

  “I hate to see you like this,” continued Ralph, frowning. “To think that it is because of me that you feel you cannot have the woman you have always wanted makes me wretched.” He paused, his eyes haunted. “I have struggled mightily since our return to England as well. You have helped me through it, Ben, by providing me with companionship when I have needed to socialise to distract myself. Let me help you now.”

  Benedict gazed at his cousin, touched beyond words. His younger cousin, who had always been so reckless and heedless, rushing at life like a bull towards a gate. Had what they suffered in India matured him at long last? It rather seemed that it had.

  “Thank you, Ralph,” he said quietly. “It moves me to hear you offer it.” He took a deep breath. “But even if I could find it within me to pursue Emmeline again, it is pointless. She still despises me and always will …”

  He stopped, thinking of her in the drawing room at Lambeth House, the day he had called upon her. Yes, she had claimed he was lying, but then she had hesitated. She had implored him to tell her what had happened. And when he had instinctively reached out to caress her face, it was as if his touch unleashed something within her. Her face had blossomed, turning almost radiant.

  Emmeline still had feelings for him. He was suddenly certain of it.

  A deep sorrow overcame him. Perhaps it would not take so very much to turn the hate she felt for him back to love again. If he explained what happened in India so that she could truly understand what he had gone through and that he had sincerely never meant to hurt her. It would show her once and for all that he had loved her and always intended to make her his wife.