by Rose Gordon
For five painfully long, headache-producing minutes, Emma clapped her hands jovially, pretending to keep time and conduct the group at the same time. Sometimes she’d stop clapping and give a rolling hand gesture in the direction of one of the girls who’d stopped playing. Other times, she’d force a smile and try not to grimace in pain when the flutist hit an extremely high note.
When Emma was sure they’d all suffered enough, she quit clapping her hands and made a quick slicing motion through the air to cut them off.
“Very good! Very good!” Drake lied, accepting hugs from his girls as they abandoned their chosen weapons of ear-torture and ran to his open arms.
Emma smiled at the happy foursome. Those three little girls might not have a mother, but there was no doubt in her mind they were loved no less than any child with two parents. She glanced at Marcus, who was quietly putting away his trumpet. He’d make as good a father as Drake. All week, he’d been patient with the girls, even when they’d called Emma’s attention away from him. He’d either tag along or warmly surrender her to them without complaint.
“Drake...er...I mean, Lord Drakely,” Emma said with a blush. Though they’d been friends for a long time and she’d always called him Drake before, she was still in his employ, and needed to remember her place. A broad smile spread her lips. She wouldn’t be in his employ much longer. “I need to talk to you in private for a moment.”
Drake’s dark brown eyes met hers. “Is there something I should be concerned about?”
Emma bit her lip. “No.”
“Did one of the girls do something beastly to you?” He looked at the girls with an overdone look of reproof, complete with his eyes narrowed to slits, lips pursed, and head cocked to the side.
She laughed. “No. Nothing like that. They were perfect angels. I just need a moment alone.”
Drake sighed. “Is this one of those conversations every parent dreads?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, where the governess hems and haws and shifts from foot to foot biting her lip then blurts out she thinks one of the children is better suited for the workhouse or a foundling hospital than the nursery.”
Emma blinked. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of. I would never suggest such a thing.”
“Phew.” Drake used the back of his hand to wipe a nonexistent bead of sweat off his forehead. “You had me really worried about Helena over there.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “Mrs. Jenkins is scared to death of her. She once confided in me that she feared for her life because of Ella’s unusual attachment to her pillow.”
“What?” Emma asked in exacerbation.
“I don’t know all the particulars,” Drake said with a shrug. “All I know is Mrs. Jenkins feared a death by suffocation at Ella’s hands—and pillow, naturally.”
Emma shook her head. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about. There is nothing the least bit wrong with Helena. She suffers no unusual fascination with her pillow, and I would highly recommend you look for a replacement if Mrs. Jenkins has suggested such a thing.”
“Don’t mind him,” Marcus grumbled, walking up to her side. “Patrick never could carry off a jest.”
“That was a jest?” Emma asked.
“Sadly, yes,” Drake said sheepishly. “As Marcus here pointed out, unlike him, I’m terrible at pulling one over on a person.”
“I’ll say,” Emma agreed, flashing him a weak smile. “At any rate, I would like to speak with you in private.”
“Absolutely. But first, perhaps you should think about removing the sign hanging in front of your bottom. It doesn’t exactly exemplify the professionalism of the governess you’re striving to display.”
“Excuse me,” Emma exclaimed, her hands flying to her bottom where sure enough a piece of parchment was loosely pinned to the bow just above her bottom. Snatching at the piece of paper, she scowled at Marcus. “You!”
His eyes widened in the worst display of innocence she’d ever witnessed. “Me what?”
“I knew you were up to something, you rascal!”
Marcus grinned. “Perhaps it was me. Perhaps it wasn’t.”
“It was,” she said, still trying to free the paper without ripping her dress or untying her bow.
“You don’t know that. Apparently little Helena here has a penchant for dastardly deeds.” Marcus rested one of his hands on Ella’s shoulders. “You should just be thankful she didn’t attack you with her pillow.”
Emma shook her head and managed to get the paper free without causing any harm to either her dress or the paper. She knew Marcus wouldn’t pin a blank piece of paper to the back of her dress. It said something. What, she didn’t know. But she’d soon find out.
Turning the paper over so she could read it, Emma let out a horrified shriek. “Marcus Jackson Sinclair, that is not funny.”
“Yes, it is,” Marcus said with an easy grin.
“If it’s any consolation, Miss Green, I didn’t believe the message,” Drake said, his lips twitching.
Repressing a groan borne of embarrassment, Emma shook her head. “Well, thank you. I’m glad you realized it really was Marcus’ trumpet you were hearing.”
Drake shrugged. “I might have put more credence into it had I not recognized Marcus’ handwriting.”
“Drat,” Marcus said, clicking his tongue. “I knew I was overlooking something. Next time I’ll get Celia to write it out for me.”
“There will not be a next time,” Emma retorted. “Not if you wish to live to see another day, that is.”
“All right, children,” Drake cut in before Marcus could reply. His gaze shifted between Marcus and Emma, letting them know exactly who he thought to be the children in the room. “I need to be going soon. Miss Green, I’ll be happy to meet with you in the library.”
“I’ll be right there, my lord.” Emma balled up the offending piece of parchment and threw it at Marcus’ chest. “I’ll be right back to talk to the girls. While I’m away, you had better not tell them anything.” She gave him a pointed look that even a blind man could interpret.
“Not to worry, Miss Green. I’ll not tell them the story as to why one should suspect anything but the trumpet playing when you’re present for a musicale,” Marcus laughingly assured her.
Emma scowled. Apparently more than fourteen years later, Marcus still remembered one of her most embarrassing moments. She turned to walk to the door and paused in the doorframe. “Just so you’re aware, that noise wasn’t what you think it was.”
“I know,” he admitted quietly. “It’s just more fun to pretend otherwise.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “As long as you know.” She shook her head and went down the hall to the library to tell Drake she was resigning her post.
“I hope everything is all right,” Drake said easily when Emma walked through the door.
“It is.” She licked her lips. “Actually, I lied, it’s not. I know I haven’t been in your employ very long, and this is most rude of me, but I must resign.”
Drake blinked. “Resign? Already? Did Helena try to smother you?”
She laughed. “No.” A big grin took her lips and she bit her lower lip to help her regain her composure again. “See, umm…” She fidgeted and looked to the side to make sure nobody could hear. “Marcus and I are going to marry.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she cried, grinning like a simpleton and nodding her head just the same.
“Congratulations to you both,” Drake said with a chuckle. “Clearly you two will be very happy together.”
“I know,” she chirped, clapping her hands merrily in front of her. “Excuse me. I mean, thank you, my lord. I’m sure Marcus and I shall rub along well enough.”
Drake grinned and shook his head. “No need to contain your excitement. I’ll just gather my urchins and be on my way.”
“Thank you for being so understanding,” Emma murmured before moving out of his way so he could leave the room.
“You did?”
“Yes. Now don’t think another thing of it and start planning that wedding of yours.”
Emma walked with Drake back down the hall and said an emotional goodbye to the three girls she’d grown so close to over the past week. She kissed them each and promised she’d come to see them soon. She also promised she’d bring candy and hair ribbons with her when she came to visit them and would leave the quills, paper, and history tomes at Ridge Water.
After they were done, Marcus and Emma walked them to their waiting carriage and went through the whole process again.
“I thought they’d never leave,” Marcus remarked, waving to the carriage making a slow crawl down the drive.
“Oh, stop. You know you think of Drake as the brother you never had and you love those girls as much as—if not more than—you’ll love Olivia’s spawn.”
“That may be, but still a man needs peace every once in a while.”
“You’re the one who suggested the musicale.”
“And it was well worth it,” Marcus replied, turning to take both of her hands in his. “I know you couldn’t see Drake’s face, but trust me, the look he sported throughout that performance was worth the headache I have now.”
“If you say so.”
“Oh, it was. I’ve never seen a man grimace one second and form an overdone grin the next. I wager at least four of his teeth turned to dust from him grinding them.”
Emma shook her head. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” She couldn’t contain her eagerness about his impending proposal a second longer.
An unusual shadow crossed Marcus’ face. “Why don’t we go inside?”
“I’ll be right there.” She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek, then ran up to her room to get the cufflinks she’d once had commissioned for him but had never actually given him. They were one of those few precious things she always kept with her in her reticule. Just now, to celebrate their engagement, was the perfect time to give them to him.
Chapter 17
Marcus lumbered into the drawing room and sat down in the chair closest to the settee to wait for Emma’s return. He ran his hand through his hair and rehearsed the words he’d say to her when she came back. Where she went, he’d never know. But he was thankful all the same she’d gone somewhere. It gave him a few minutes to prepare what he’d say to her. His heart hammered in his chest as nervous excitement coursed through him. In a matter of minutes, their lives would change.
He forced an overdone smile to his lips as she breezed into the room. The sight of her excited face made his heart squeeze. There was no doubting how much he loved her. That was why this had to work. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if it didn’t.
“What’s in your hand?” he asked when she sat down and idly jiggled something in her left hand, making a little pinging noise fill the air.
Her hand stilled. “Nothing.” Her grin tattled her lying hide.
Marcus smiled thinly as a little knife of regret stabbed his heart. “Emma,” he said roughly, sitting down across from her. He swallowed and cleared his throat. Twice. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Yes,” she squealed, her level of excitement rivaling that of a little girl being taken into a confectionary for the first time.
“I want you to know I love you.”
Emma’s grin widened. “I know that already. And I love you, too. But go on.” She favored him with a smile that would put one of the king’s chandeliers to shame.
“I wanted to talk to you about something serious. Emma, I—”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she burst out, jumping to her feet, dropping whatever was in her hands and throwing her arms around Marcus’ neck.
Marcus blinked. Emma was still hugging him tightly and kissing him anywhere she could fit her lips. “Emma darling,” he said, trying to pull her off him. He cupped her face. “You haven’t even heard my proposal.”
“I don’t need to. I accept.”
“You accept?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know what you’re accepting.”
“Yes, I do. You.”
“Me?”
She turned her face to kiss his palm. “Yes, you, you clodpole. I accept your suit.”
“My suit?”
Emma corralled her excitement and briefly raised her hands in the air as if she were surrendering. “All right.” She sighed, and climbed off where she’d perched herself on his lap. She stood straight in front of him. “If you wish to be formal about this, then do so. I’ll listen to every word of your proposal. But please don’t get on your knee.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” Taking her hands in his, he looked into her deep green eyes and rubbed mindless patterns on her knuckles with his thumbs. “Emma, I want you to go to London.”
“What?”
His fingers involuntarily tightened around hers for a brief second before relaxing. “I think you should have a Season.”
Emma’s lower lip trembled. “Wh—what?”
“I want to fund a Season for you.”
“Why?”
Marcus frowned. “I just told you. I want you to have a Season.”
“I don’t want one,” she said, shaking her head to prove her point. “I’m perfectly happy as things are.”
“You won’t be,” he said tightly.
“What’s that to mean?”
“It means you won’t be happy in the future.”
“And another Season in London is going to change that?”
Marcus nodded slowly. “It’ll help you find a husband.”
“I’ve already found one,” Emma said in a tone Marcus couldn’t interpret.
“You have?”
Emma closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened her emerald orbs again, she looked him square in the eye and said, “Have you been indulging in Olivia’s opium?”
“No. Why?”
“You are acting most strange.”
Ignoring her, Marcus pulled her to his lap. “Let’s start over. Emma, I want to give you a Season.”
She shook her head and looked a little dumbfounded. “Why all of a sudden do you have an interest in going to London?”
“I don’t,” he stated firmly. “I’m not going. You are.”
“Marcus, you’re not making a whit of sense. Why am I going to London? I already told you I don’t need a Season. I’m ready to marry you now.”
Her words nearly knocked the air straight out of his lungs. “I don’t recall proposing.”
“You haven’t. But you were about to when I took a temporary leave of my senses and jumped on you like a madwoman.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said solemnly.
“You weren’t what?” Her brows furrowed together.
He used the tip of his index finger to smooth out the wrinkle between her brows. “Emma, I can’t marry you.”
“Pardon?”
The shock and hurt in her voice made his heart constrict in a most painful way. “If I could marry, I’d marry you tomorrow. But I can’t. I can’t do that to you.”
“Pardon?”
“I can’t marry you.”
“Pardon?”
“Have you temporarily forgotten all other words in the English language?”
Emma scrambled off his lap at his jest. “What are you talking about Marcus?” she demanded, the porcelain skin on her face stained with pink blotches.
“Emma,” he said slowly. “I cannot marry.”
“What do you mean you cannot marry?”
He scratched this suddenly uncontrollable itch that had developed on the back of his head. Well, not really. He was just scratching his head frantically in an attempt to stall for time. But no amount of time would make this any easier. With a deep exhalation, he met her eyes. “All right, you caught me. I can marry. I choose not to.”
With hard, unyielding eyes, Emma stared at him
. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“No.”
“Elaborate.”
He sighed. “Emma, I love you. And because I love you, I can’t marry you.”
“Are you sure you’ve not indulged in something?” she demanded, her voice not full of the humor it was the first time she’d suggested it. “What you just told me does not explain anything. If you love me, then you’ll marry me. That’s what people who love each other do.”
“No, they don’t,” he corrected, momentarily forgetting she’d been born of a lower station. One which made love matches very common. She might have been the daughter to one of the lower gentry and had witnessed the social scene among the nobles, but that didn’t mean she understood it. To her, people married for love. That was the way of it for the commoners. Money and connections had little to do with it.
“They can,” she amended, bringing him back to present. “Look at Alex and Caroline.”
“Yes, they can,” he allowed, ignoring the part about Alex and Caroline. They were not a good example for his cause. “But the point is I am a lord of the realm. As such, I’m not expected to marry for love.”
“Who cares?” she burst out. “Who cares if you have a love match or an arranged marriage? Likely nobody will care. You’re such a recluse as it is, the majority of them won’t even know who you are when you’re gossiped about for having a love match.”
“I don’t care about the gossip. I’ve been subjected to more than most. That’s irrelevant. The point is you’ll not be happy if we marry.”
“Yes, I will,” she said with a sound of frustration.
“No, you won’t. I can’t give you the life someone else can.”
“What are you talking about?”
Marcus sighed and closed his eyes. “I can’t have children.”
Emma’s mouth opened and shut several times, never a sound coming out.
Standing up, Marcus cupped her face and tipped it up toward his. “I love you too much. I can’t subject you to a life without children. That’s why I want you go to go London. I want you to marry a man who can give you what I can’t.”
“No,” she said fiercely. “You’re lying.”