The Loving Seasons

by Laura Matthews

Amelia’s needle hung poised over the embroidery for a moment before she set another stitch. “It’s probably all to the good that they’re moving, though. Helena has been mistress of the house in Argyll Street and it will be best for Lady Anne to start fresh as mistress of a new house. You can’t blame Helena for feeling unsettled. As good friends as they are, it’s an awkward situation. Helena is going to be unseated from the role she’s played for her brother for years now.”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t really considered that facet of the arrangement. Do you suppose Anne has?”

  “If she hasn’t, she will, and I’m sure she will handle it with the greatest tact, but that won’t prevent Helena from suffering some pangs of regret.” With an accomplished motion she threaded and knotted a new length of gold thread.

  Emma rose and walked about the room. “Nothing is as simple as it seems. Even the very best of solutions has some bitter side effect for someone.” Realizing that her statement might be misinterpreted, she glanced sharply at Amelia, but her aunt was placidly setting another stitch, not even looking in her direction. Emma returned to her chair and reached out to touch her aunt’s shoulder. “Dear Aunt Amelia I never meant to be on your hands so long. Do you know, before we left school I had such conceit that I was sure I would marry long before Maggie or Anne? And now look at me, not a prospect in the offing.”

  Amelia set aside the embroidery and concentrated on her niece. “You’ve learned a lot since then, my love. And you mustn’t worry for a moment about being a bother to me. I’ve loved having you and no sensible girl rushes into marriage.” A frown puckered her brow. “I had thought for a short while that you and Dunn—”

  “Oh, no!” Emma cried, stricken. “Never! He chose to make friends with me for your sake. It seemed to be so pointless to be at outs with each other when we were both so close to you.”

  A sigh escaped her. “Well, I’m glad that the two of you are at least friends. He’s a fine man, Emma. One of the truly worthy gentlemen of my acquaintance. I can understand why you would find it difficult to choose a husband. So many of the young men are ramshackle to the last degree. And those who aren’t, well, they tend to be pompous and lacking in any joie de vivre. You need someone who can share in your high spirits and yet provide a steadying influence. I cannot honestly say I know any other such gentlemen.”

  “No.” Emma felt frozen with sadness. Not for another moment could she bear to sit here discussing Dunn, however, and she jumped to her feet, carefully placing a smile on her lips. “I shall find one, though, dear Aunt Amelia. Heavens, if I am to finish the portrait of Anne before her wedding, I’ll have to do better than sit cozing with you. If Sir Nicholas comes to take me driving, you may send him to the studio. He wasn’t sure when he would be able to get here today.”

  The portrait was coming along very slowly. Anne sat for her twice a week, despite her busy schedule. Emma wanted to capture the radiance that Anne seemed to exude, but her own numbness refused to allow her to get it on canvas. Her very strokes seemed too controlled to portray the splendor of Anne’s emotions. Far from eagerly setting out to work on it each day, Emma had to force herself to enter the studio. This was not the way she wanted to paint, and the portrait of Anne was especially important to her.

  Even before she closed the door behind her, she had taken in the whole, awful scene. Just for a moment she thought someone else must be guilty of wretched carelessness, but she knew almost instantly that it was her own fault. The portrait had fallen from the easel and lay facedown on the floor in a rubble of dirt and leaves blown in through the open door to the garden. Last night, late, after the servants had locked up for the night, Emma had prowled restlessly about the house, eventually wandering into the studio for a brief, unsatisfactory glance at the portrait. Her nerves on edge, she had then unlocked the door and marched out into the blustery night, defiantly fearful of running into Dunn should he come to visit Amelia that night.

  The protection her dressing gown gave her was negligible, and she felt the rising wind tug at her hair and chill her straight through. She didn’t care. Let them find her dead of exposure in the morning, her overly dramatic mind taunted the fates. Who would mourn her? Quite a few people, she acknowledged, but she made no move to return to the house.

  Instead she sat down on The Bench, as she thought of it in her mind, and recalled that last conversation held there. Was she mistaken in thinking that it was the prelude to an offer? Had she built up a fantasy out of whole cloth? No, she had known. Just as she had known, earlier that evening, when he spoke to her distantly polite, and did not ask her to stand up with him, that he had accepted her rejection. He would not approach her again, would not make any move to change her decision. She should have been relieved. A despair so black had settled on her that she had hurried back into the house, up to her room, without even realizing that she had left the studio door open.

  And the wind had raged. She had heard it in her room, beating about the house, later dashing rain against the windows. Her studio now looked as though the storm had invaded in force. Fortunately, there were no other works in progress, but the portrait of Anne.

  Emma went to lift it from the floor and winced. Ruined. Twigs, leaves, dirt imbedded in the fresh paint, distorting the already imperfect image. The tears Emma had not allowed herself the previous evening now would not be denied. She leaned her head on the picture frame and wept, great shuddering sobs that racked her body, made her throat ache unbearably, their intensity refusing to diminish.

  “My dear girl! Whatever is the matter?”

  Emma raised her tear-stained face only briefly. “Oh, Nick."

  The portrait was held toward him and he grimaced at the unsightly mess. He prized it gently from her shaking fingers and leaned it against the legs of the easel, turning to pull her stricken body against his. With the hand not used to support her he awkwardly patted her head. “There now, it’s not the end of the world, my dear. You have said you weren’t satisfied with it, so perhaps it is all for the best. Was the door left open?”

  He could barely understand her reply that she had accidentally done so. “Hell of a storm, Emma. Most unfortunate. There now, it will be all right.” Her efforts to bring the sobs under control were not noticeably successful. He stroked her hair and placed little kisses on her forehead, pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Those large, swimming eyes, overflowing even as he blotted at them. Unaccountably he crushed her to him, rubbing his hands soothingly up and down her back. “Don’t cry, my love. I can’t bear it,” he said with a shaky laugh.

  Under his stroking hands Emma’s sobs had begun to diminish slightly, edged out by new sensations. She was no longer unaware of the warmth of his body pressed against hers, of the strangely husky voice in which he murmured his comforting words. The high pitch of her emotions shifted slightly, unnervingly, into another channel. She became intensely aware of his hands on her back, of the whisper of breath in her hair. The hammering of his heart beneath her ear had quickened, and she could feel her own heartbeat speed to match it, could feel that her breath had quickened and her own arms longed to cling to him. Shaken, uncertain, she gently drew back from his embrace.

  When she looked up, she found his eyes filled with tenderness, ready to comfort her aching heart, and with desire, willing to fan the flickering flame he had struck in her. They regarded one another silently for a moment, and then he opened his arms invitingly. Emma stepped into them, her hands going about his waist as his lips sought hers. There was an urgency to their kisses in keeping with the heightened emotional atmosphere. Desire replaced despair, blocking everything from her mind except the need for his lips, his touch. The relief of simply succumbing to this new need, of not fighting any longer, was in itself a euphoria.

  His lips brushed her eyelids and her cheeks. His hands caressed her shoulders and back. Warmth flooded through her body like nourishing sunlight. And then his tongue penetrated her mouth, strangely exhilarating. One hand slid to cup her breast, the
other to press against her buttocks. She could feel the hardness of his sex, frightening and yet exciting. His hand at her breast coaxed the nipple erect against her morning dress, making it so sensitive that she could feel the texture of the material. And still his tongue explored her mouth, his lips urgent against hers, until she felt so light-headed that she could barely stand.

  “Oh, Lord, Emma,” he whispered, cradling her more lightly against his body, dropping his hands to her waist. “It would be hypocritical for me to apologize.”

  “Of course it would,” she murmured against his coat, “or for me to wish you to.”

  He ran his hands through her silky blond hair. “Frankness is one of your besetting sins, and one of your most marvelous attributes,” he informed her dolefully. “I never doubted your sensuality, or your ability to admit it. But I have taken advantage of your lowered resistance.”

  "I don’t mind.” Emma lifted her head so she could look at him. “I feel a great deal better than I did when you came in.”

  “I’m not surprised. You could hardly have felt a great deal worse.”

  “True.” She pressed his hands and stepped away from him. Though her body gradually calmed, a glow of excitement remained, apparent in her flushed cheeks. “I don’t know why I should have been so upset about the portrait. As you said, I wasn’t satisfied with it. But Anne hasn’t the time to sit very often, and it isn’t that long until her wedding.”

  “You don’t have to finish it by then.”

  “I know, but I wanted to.” She gazed about the little room and shook her head. “I’ll have to have someone come in and clean up this mess. It only makes me feel worse to realize it’s my fault.”

  “We all make mistakes.” He saw that she was headed to the door, acting immediately on her words. “Emma, wait. I want to talk to you for a moment.”

  “We would be more comfortable in the drawing room.”

  “Yes, but Amelia’s there.”

  She cocked her head at him, smiling. “More private conversation, Nick?”

  “Private conversation is not criminal conversation,” he retorted.

  “So I am not to be the subject of crim. con. stories.” She sighed, her eyes twinkling. “We can talk in the back writing room. I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

  When she joined him he noted that she had washed her face and combed her hair. All traces of tears and arousal alike were gone. By mutual assent they seated themselves on the small gold sofa.

  Nick reached out to trace the oval of her face, testing her. She made no effort to avoid his touch and he grinned. “Contrary to what you may think, Emma, today is not the first time I’ve had a desire to ravish you. Our regular proximity has produced a growing ambition on my part, and I am prepared to act on it.”

  “Good heaven, Nick, you aren’t going to offer me a carte blanche, are you?” she protested, indignant.

  “The thought never entered my mind.” His leering eyes belied such puritan sentiments but he proceeded seriously. “No, I’m offering you marriage, Emma. Please, don’t say anything until I’ve finished. This is difficult enough for me. We would suit very well, you know. Our temperaments are similar and I think we would have the sense not to interfere in one another’s lives beyond what was pleasurable. You have your painting. I have my sporting activities. I’ve never felt the need to marry and have an heir, but if you produced one for me, and kept him from being a nuisance, I daresay I shouldn’t mind so very much. I would hate to see my cousin Herbert inherit my worldly goods when I die. And, if I’ve not been misinformed by common gossip, your dowry is quite sufficient to any expense you might incur. You wouldn’t cost me a penny!”

  “Really, Nick!”

  “There are worse fates, my dear. And being a spinster is one of them.” He regarded her shrewdly for a moment. “I think you're fond of me, other attachments notwithstanding. I know I’ve grown exceptionally fond of you. Marriage would give you more freedom, a home of your own, a chance to release Amelia from the care of you. Call it a convenient marriage if you wish.” The rakish gleam she had portrayed in his portrait was again in his eyes. “I would deem it wonderfully convenient to find you in my bed each night.”

  Despite herself, Emma flushed. “No doubt," she said dryly. “Nick, I... I can’t argue with your reasoning; it makes a great deal of sense . . . for me. But you, well, you don’t really want a wife. I would he a hindrance, a nuisance. Occasionally you would have to think of me, take me into account when you were making your plans. And I’m too young for you. People would be sure to comment on that.”

  “What the hell do I care if people comment on it? It’s none of their business. Besides, it simply means you’ll still be young enough to make another match when I’m in my grave.”

  Her voice became sharp. “Don’t say things like that! You’re not that old.”

  “I know.” He took her chin gently between his fingers and gazed intently into her bewildered eyes. “Now listen carefully, my love. Marriage to me would be a great deal more comfortable for you than to one of those young gudgeons who follow you around like puppies. You would have the house in Upper Brook Street to live in here and the estate in Wiltshire when you wished to retire to the country. There is no reason you couldn’t be as happy as most wives, probably much more so. There are areas in which I flatter myself I could make you very happy indeed.”

  His lips descended on hers then, and his hands began to stroke her sides gently. Emma intended at first to protest. Her attempts to think his proposal through were so easily distracted by other matters thrusting themselves on her attention—Dunn’s distant politeness of the previous evening, Anne’s ruined portrait, Maggie’s disapproval of Nick, even Amelia’s pointing out her need for a guiding hand in marriage. Emma hadn’t thought herself in any mood for further lovemaking, but she found almost instantly that he was wrong. This time the desire rose more quickly and she almost wished that he were not being so very gentlemanly with his hands. When he drew back from her, there was no smug satisfaction at her response, merely a matter-of-fact acceptance of it.

  “You really should be married, Emma,” he said gently. "You have a store of sensuality that can’t be expressed any other way, for a lady of your birth. As I see it, I am by far the most suitable of the gentlemen available to you. Or am I wrong about that?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Then I suggest that you agree. Never mind what other people will say or think. You have only yourself to please, thank God. Will you have me?”

  Emma moistened her lips and met his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He pressed a kiss on her cheek, nothing more. “When shall it be?”

  “After Anne’s. I don’t want anything detracting from her special occasion. And small, Nick. I don’t want all the trappings she will have. Just a private ceremony with a few friends. I can’t abide stately ceremonies.”

  He took her hand, smiling. “I told you we had a great deal in common. Not that I am especially pleased to wait for another month. I could get a special license and have us joined within a day.”

  “Aunt Amelia would call that unseemly haste.” Emma tried to return his smile, but her emotions were in such turmoil that her lips would not behave properly. “I’m sure I can be happy with you, Nick. I only hope you aren’t making a mistake.”

  “Don’t worry your pretty head about that, love. It occurred to me some time ago that I couldn’t possibly choose a better wife for myself than you.”

  Emma refused to listen to the nagging doubt in her head that protested that he shouldn’t be choosing a wife at all, that he didn’t need a wife and wouldn’t know what to do with one—other than in bed. She refused, also, to ask for the reassurance of his kisses. Instead she rose and said, “Let’s tell Aunt Amelia. The hardest part of the whole thing is going to be breaking the news to our various and sundry acquaintances.”

  He grimaced. “I know. I’m likely to be hooted out of White’s.”

  * * * *

/>   When Amelia found that an hour’s quiet conversation with Emma did nothing to shake the girl’s resolve to marry Sir Nicholas, she decided to accept the inevitable and make an announcement at the soiree she was giving that evening. Fortunately it was not to be a large gathering, but it did include their closest friends and seemed a fitting occasion, provided Sir Nicholas had his wits sufficiently about him to show up with an engagement ring. Taking no chances, Emma sent a note to Upper Brook Street conveying her aunt’s intention, and her own ring size, mentioning that it would be prudent for him to arrive before the other guests. “And if you can’t find anything at such short notice, or don’t wish to,” she had written, “I shall wear my mother’s engagement ring, which is quite lovely and fits perfectly.”

  Dressing for the evening proved more difficult than Emma had anticipated. Her plan to wear the blue satin had to be discarded: it was not glamorous enough for the announcement. Her white crepe had been worn too recently, and the primrose gauze was a little too fancy for the evening’s entertainment.

  An emerald crepe that she had not worn as yet because of the low, square cut over the bust began to take on particular appeal for her. Somehow it seemed appropriate to wear it when announcing that she was to be married to Sir Nicholas. The sarcenet slip clung to her body, while the crepe overdress shimmered whimsically over it. In the costume plate the dress had had long sleeves, but Madame Minotier had insisted that on Emma a rouleau of crepe at either shoulder would be most becoming. Madame Minotier had also scorned the long veil, telling Emma such tricks were for demure misses who hadn’t the style to carry off such a dress.

  Emma decided as she slipped into matching emerald shoes that Nick would appreciate her choice. It didn’t matter if there were some who would frown. She allowed her abigail to arrange her hair with a part on the forehead and loose ringlets disposed over each ear, the back braided into a crown in which was settled an ornament of semiprecious stones.

  The mirror reflected a most alluring image scarcely detracted from by the nervous flush that stained her cheeks. Was she really doing the right thing? Marrying Nick was at the same time sensible and hopelessly foolish. What sort of reaction would there be to the announcement? Anne would be there with Mr. Rogers. Even Maggie might come if she were feeling particularly well. Would they pretend to approve?