by Lyn Stone
She had Nick’s word that his father had forced him to leave her when he would much rather have stayed. And he’d avowed that the old earl had only made up the tale of a betrothal to Dierdre Worthing so that Emily would be angry with Nick and forget him. Why shouldn’t she believe Nick over his father, who was known to be cruel?
What purpose would be served in expecting things to go awry at any moment? None that she could see. Pride could be a good thing, could it not?
Tonight she would not worry about anything other than who she would dance with first while Rolly played fiddle and Somers, the concertina.
With a smile on her face and a lilt in her step, Emily went downstairs, realizing she was a bit early for the celebration.
She needed to stop by Nick’s study first to filch a bit of paper from his desk to complete one last task before leaving for London in the morning. The men who would be moving the family and her own things from the vicarage to Bournesea House should have a list of what to bring.
The chore would only take a few moments of her time and might save Father a bit of confusion in the coming week. Then she could focus solely on the party tonight and her trip tomorrow morning.
Chapter Seven
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Nicholas demanded. He could not believe his eyes. Not because she was radiant in that gown or because her hair shone like rich gold in the lamplight. No. What she was up to was the thing that shocked him so. How dare she plunder through a man’s desk as if she had a perfect right.
The instant he’d walked in and seen her, the betrothal document flashed through his mind. If she had found it there, not knowing it existed, she would never understand. God, how remiss of him not to think of that until now. How stupid not to tell her of it in the beginning.
Emily glanced up, one hand still inside the drawer of his desk. “Looking for paper,” she told him, appearing not the least bit guilty about snooping. “I need to make a list.”
He stalked over and physically removed her from where she stood, insinuating himself between her and his desk. He slammed the drawer shut. “Then ask for it,” he said through gritted teeth. “I do not plunder through your things, do I?”
Emily huffed. “Since I don’t have any things here to plunder through, that seems irrelevant. When I do have things, you may retaliate if it will make you feel better. I have no secrets.”
He did. “I would appreciate your granting me my privacy.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you have secrets?”
The audacity of the woman! “If I told you, they would no longer be secret, now would they?”
Aside from the current document he was loath to explain, Nick could well imagine her in future, discovering things she had no business knowing. Once he became embroiled in international matters, her prying could prove dangerous. Not that Emily would ever discuss such things out of hand, but it was the principle of the thing. A man should possess an inner sanctum, shouldn’t he? He always had. Anyone who had ever worked for him would never dream of such a trespass.
Nick opened a drawer to the right and yanked out a stack of stationery with the family crest embossed. “There’s your paper,” he said, plunking the sheets in her outstretched hand.
She accepted, watched him for a moment longer, then shrugged. “I shall need a pen.”
Nick impatiently pointed to the small case with mother-of-pearl inlay that sat on top of the desk blotter.
“May I sit?” she asked, brows raised in question as she gestured toward his huge leather chair, “Or is the chair off-limits, as well?”
“Do I amuse you, madame?” he asked, heartily angry at the way she was so obviously suppressing a smile. Her eyes sparkled with it.
He pulled out the chair for her anyway. It seemed Emily was destined to invade all corners of his existence, no matter how sacrosanct. He did not have to like it, but he might as well get used to it. “Do make yourself comfortable,” he snapped with sarcasm.
“Aren’t we in a mood,” she commented, tossing him a look of weary forbearance. “And here I’d intended to offer you the first dance this evening. You might as well forget that.” She selected a pen and carefully unstoppered the inkwell.
Nick propped one hip on the corner of the desk and glared like a hawk, watching her nimble fingers manipulate the writing instruments, trying like the devil not to imagine them manipulating him. The fact that they would not at any time in the near future did nothing whatsoever to improve his disposition. Well, he wouldn’t touch her, either. “I never dance,” he informed her.
She dipped the pen, raked it on the edge of the bottle and examined the point. “Of course you dance. I taught you myself.”
The memory of those lessons rushed in as if she had yanked open a door.
For some reason Nick suddenly found the whole situation absurd. The document was safely concealed. Why was he making such a to-do over this? Had being an only child all his life rendered him terminally possessive of his things? He supposed so.
He had never liked to share. Except with Emily, he recalled. Once he had wished to give her everything her heart desired. He did now, too. Hell, she could have the damned desk, the chair, the pen, the entire study if she wished. A smile escaped before he could catch it.
She was ignoring his reprimand anyway. Nothing frightened this girl—woman, he corrected himself. Not anger, or threats, or even cholera itself seemed to scare her. Em always bounced up, plucky as ever, resilient as a ball of India rubber.
Nick folded his arms across his chest and continued watching while she wrote in fine, slanted letters, the column of whatever it was she fancied done or remembered.
“Is the list for me?” he asked, schooling himself to sound more companionable, less acrimonious. He was not willing to apologize, for he was in the right here, but he no longer wished to keep berating her. Especially when she was giving so little notice of being berated.
She looked up at him from under long amber lashes. “Why, yes, it is for you. A list of books to purchase, actually. Books of poetry,” she added, pointedly, raising both brows for emphasis. “I suspect I shall need to lay in a good supply of them for the future. Tell me, how do you feel about Keats?”
Nick grimaced. “Slightly nauseous. He was mad, you know.”
“Good for him. Top of the list.” She placed a final dot on the paper, laid down the pen and slowly leaned back in his chair, her slender hands lying along the curved arms of it. He watched her fingers flex nimbly, idly stroking the smoothly polished wood. Rhythmically stroking…His breath caught in his throat.
“Are you over your tantrum?” she asked, thankfully distracting him.
He shook off his lecherous thoughts and forced a grin. “Yes. Absolutely. So, shall I get that dance?”
“Of course,” she said as she rose from the chair. “And your privacy, too. I regret the intrusion.”
Rather than regretful, Nick thought she looked and sounded victorious. Admittedly, he had forfeited this round, but he could be gracious.
“You’re forgiven,” he said, offering his arm. He smiled down at her sincerely. “Just think, we have had our very first quarrel.”
She leveled on him a world-weary look. “Hardly that.”
“Our last then,” he suggested with an emphatic nod.
Emily laughed. “Hardly that, either. I’d wager on it!”
In mock horror, he stared down at her. “Egad, the vicar’s daughter laying a bet? Unheard of!”
The expression on her face stole his breath. It held both fear and hope. “Yet I have placed one of the largest wagers that ever a woman can, haven’t I?”
Nick inclined his head, granting the truth in what she said. This marriage of theirs was a gigantic gamble for both of them.
As he walked her to the ballroom, he thought of the betrothal contract again and the wife his father had intended for him. Had it not been for the quarantine and this necessary marriage caused by it, Emily might never have allowed Nick the opportunit
y to explain why he had left her. She would hate him still. And if he had finally accepted that he could never have Emily, this might be Dierdre Worthing on his arm.
He wondered if it would be wicked beyond all reason to celebrate the occurrence of cholera.
“I haven’t told you yet how beautiful you are in lavender, have I?” he asked.
“No, as a matter of fact, you haven’t.”
Nick saw she was blushing bright pink, pretending to be totally unaffected by the compliment as she shrugged and added, “However, I should think you’d make mention of it if only to counter your wretched behavior.”
“You are beautiful in lavender,” he said simply, resisting the urge to elaborate.
“Then I suppose I must excuse you from the sonnet readings,” she replied, holding up a finger. “This once.”
“Thank God that worked,” he muttered, heaving a theatrical sigh of relief.
She laughed gaily as he had meant her to. Nick was glad that was the way her father, brother and the entire crew saw them as they entered the ballroom arm in arm.
The temporary image they projected at that moment was exactly how Nick wanted them to be. But he knew this instant of happiness and accord was as evanescent as a bubble of soap.
She was only beginning to trust him, venturing with small, hesitant steps toward the camaraderie they had once enjoyed. They were nowhere near the point they had reached the day he had kissed her, when she had opened her heart to him.
There were so many problems down the road that Emily didn’t see yet. She had gambled with the stakes higher than she realized and was compounding her risks by accompanying him to London. Hell, she was compounding his, as well, but to force her to stay here would destroy whatever trust he had gained from her thus far.
The seaman Rolly, struck up a saucy reel on his battered old violin the moment he saw them.
Without a pause, Nick slipped his arms around Emily and began to waltz her in circles across the highly polished floor. He laughed at her surprise and halfhearted protests while the crew cheered him on.
For this evening he would hold her close and forget everything but the music and dancing with his lovely new wife. A man deserved at least one worry-free night on his honeymoon.
Actually, a man deserved considerably more than that, Nick thought wryly, but he knew he would have to be content with a few dances until their marriage was on firmer ground.
Despite the fact that he had to wait to claim her fully, and even in view of the difficulties they might encounter with Emily’s being accepted as his countess, Nick felt more optimistic about their life together than he had at any time since the awkward ceremony. They had a fighting chance to make everything work, he thought, so long as they stayed on the same side of the fracas.
“Rolly’s beginning to tire, I expect,” she commented after they had danced through several tunes. “Shall I play and offer him a rest?”
Reluctantly, Nick led her toward the piano, a huge old grand that had grown sadly out of tune in its disuse before she’d arrived. It could still use a thorough tuning, but no one minded. Emily played so well it was easy to ignore the occasional sour note.
“Do you recall ‘Folly of the Rose,’ Em?” he leaned close and asked when he had seated her on the piano stool.
She said nothing, so he persisted, “I’ve not heard it since I came home. We could—”
“No,” she said in a clipped voice he’d not heard her use before, even when she was angry. “I’ve forgotten it,” she declared.
Immediately she positioned her fingers and ripped into a rollicking sea ditty that Lofty was overly fond of singing.
Too late Nick remembered the opening words of the song he had encouraged her to play. Words they used to sing together.
Where they once strolled together, she now strolled alone. Rose remained on the vine and her lover was gone. Oh, the folly of loving…
The rest escaped him for the moment, but Nick realized he had made a grievous error in suggesting that selection.
Much to his chagrin, he had been too focused on the memory of walking with Emily across the meadow. Nick had been recalling how they’d walked then, hands clasped and swinging to and fro between them as they sang and made ridiculous faces at one another over the sappy lyrics.
Apparently she had found new meaning in the words even if he had not.
Tomorrow, on the way to London, he would talk to her about it, explain his reason for the faux pas. She didn’t appear disposed to discuss anything with him at the moment and he couldn’t say that he blamed her.
One step forward, two steps back, Nick reflected. This marriage business was damned hard work.
Morning seeped in, its dampness invading the very stones of Bournesea House. Emily snuggled beneath the covers and briefly wished she did not have to leave the warmth of the bed.
Memories of last evening brought a sleepy, contented smile. Nicholas finally had shown her his true charming self again after hiding as he had behind that facade of gruffness he had acquired abroad.
Emily knew he still wished he could leave her behind, though he was being gracious in his capitulation. She would have to be satisfied with that, she supposed.
Understandable that he would not be enthusiastic about presenting her, daughter of a country vicar, to the aristocracy as his wife. She was not all that eager to be presented.
Nick’s kindness was deeply rooted enough that he would never tell her that he dreaded it, of course, but she was not so simpleminded that she couldn’t figure it out for herself. However, she had decided that they might as well meet this challenge head-on at the outset. The longer they waited, the more difficult it would be.
They were married and that was a fact. Nick had stated his intention to reside in London for a good portion of each year. The sooner everyone there accepted that he had her as a wife, the better.
She threw back the covers and hurried through her morning ablutions. Since Lady Elizabeth owned no traveling garments, Emily donned her own sturdy black day gown, thankful that her brother had thought to bring her clothing back with him when he’d gone to fetch their father for last night’s celebration. This was the only thing even halfway appropriate for a daylong carriage ride.
She might not make such a grand entrance into the city, but no one would see her other than the servants residing at Nick’s house in town.
Quickly, she gathered up her cloak, gloves and reticule and started down to tell Nicholas she was ready to leave.
When Emily reached the doorway, she turned and took one last look around the countess’s chamber. “I wish you were coming with me, my lady,” she whispered, then smiled at her own silly fears. She was the lady now. The countess. She must remember that above all.
“Good morning,” Nick greeted her with a curt nod as he continued supervising the placement of their trunks atop the closed coach.
Emily cast a quick wave at Wrecker who was performing the task. Young Sam Herring would be driving and was already in place, attempting to keep the prancing team calm. Another of the men approached, holding the reins of a saddled mare.
“Will you be riding?” Emily asked.
Nick frowned at the mount. “She’ll be hitched behind us. Either Wrecker or myself must ride for a few miles along the way. There are locations where an outrider will be needed.”
Emily did not need to ask why. She had read about the dangers inherent in travel. Due to lack of employment, many a man had been forced to resort to thievery. Coaches transporting the well-to-do were always fair game for highwaymen.
The mounts tugged at their traces, obviously none too thrilled to be doing their duty on a bleak, foggy day such as this, but ready to have done with it since they were committed. Though her pride would never allow her to show it, she knew exactly how the poor beasts felt.
Nick opened the carriage door and turned to assist her inside, then climbed in behind her. “Still certain you want to go?”
She smiled confiden
tly as she arranged her skirts and situated her reticule on the seat beside her. “Of course!” she said brightly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The coach rocked and creaked as Wrecker moved around on top, securing their luggage. “All set up here, m’lord,” he called down.
“Then let’s be off.” He raised his silver-headed cane and knocked on the ceiling, signaling Sam Herring that they were settled inside and prepared to leave.
Emily put on a smile and clutched the edge of the seat as the carriage lumbered through the gates. “I’ve not much experience with carriages,” she told Nick. None, in fact. She could not recall ever having been inside one. Her father had only a one-horse trap to carry him about the country. “This one seems very grand,” she observed, scanning the interior that was outfitted with coach lamps and rich-looking fabric. The smooth leather seat, though tufted, felt slippery beneath and behind her. One short stop and she would surely slide forward into his lap.
“It’s quite old and not very well sprung,” he noted with a grimace. “Father should have replaced it.” He shoved his leather satchel into one corner, then shrugged out of his lightweight cloak and made a show of tugging off his gloves one finger at a time.
He unbuttoned his suit coat as he raised a brow. “Would you mind if I sat beside you so that we can both face forward?”
Emily didn’t think they would fit, what with her voluminous skirts. “We could exchange places,” she suggested.
“No, the trip will not be a smooth one, apparently, and riding backward might make you feel ill.”
“Do you?” she asked quickly. “Feel ill, that is?”
He shook his head and reached across to assist her in gathering her skirts to one side to make room for him. “Not yet, but we wouldn’t want to risk it, would we?”
Suddenly and gracefully, despite his great height, Nick moved across the carriage and joined her. “There. Much better,” he stated firmly. He lay one long arm along the back of the seat and propped the other along the window ledge so that he could grasp the edge of it.
Emily wriggled, attempting to make herself comfortable, though she felt a bit discombobulated, being this close to him. The spicy scent of his pleasing cologne, a subtle yet enticing male sort of essence, seemed to envelop her. Her heart beat too fast and she could not seem to gather her wits.