I’m in love with you.
He stared at the pond where he’d taught her to swim and thought of her face, so luminous in the moonlight. He stood on the bank of the stream and imagined her standing in the water with her skirts tucked up around those long, beautiful legs. He saw her naked on the kitchen floor eating peaches, and by the washstand while he shaved, and beside him while he brushed his teeth. “I love you, too,” he whispered to the mirror where he saw the ghost of her reflection, hating himself because he hadn’t said it sooner. Because he hadn’t said it to her. Hadn’t even said it to himself. Because he hadn’t realized it until she was gone.
Bereft, he walked the lane, wishing he’d held her hand when they had walked together. He ought to have done that.
I want my springtime.
Harry stopped and looked around him. Springtime had gone, and summer, too. It was autumn now, and the leaves were starting to turn. He thought of autumn days toasting bread and cheese by a fire with her. That wasn’t going to happen now.
This was stupid. She wasn’t coming down here. Why should she? He started to turn and go back to the cottage to pack up what little he’d brought with him, but then he stopped. Coming toward him along the lane was that elderly couple that had so captured Emma’s imagination. He remained where he was, watching as they walked toward him, hand in hand as always. He nodded a greeting and so did they as they went by.
Harry looked over his shoulder. “Pardon me,” he called to them.
They stopped and turned around, looking at him in inquiry.
He gave an awkward half laugh and gestured to their joined hands. “Forgive me if I’m being impertinent, but are you two married?”
They laughed and looked at each other, but it was the woman who answered. “Of course,” she said. “You’re married, too, Mr…. ahem…Williams.” She looked at him with knowing eyes, and she gave him a wise, gentle smile. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”
He stared after them in astonishment as they went on their way, and just before they turned and disappeared amid the trees, he heard the man say, “They always seem so happy, those two. I hope he makes an honest woman of her soon.”
Harry stood there, feeling as if the earth were shifting beneath his feet, as if everything in his world were settling into place and becoming right for the very first time.
He started walking back toward the cottage, then he broke into a run. He only had twenty minutes to catch the train back to London.
It was Sunday, and tea time in Little Russell Street. Emma sat in the parlor with Mrs. Morris, Mrs. Inkberry, and her fellow girl-bachelors and conversed on all the proper subjects. The weather, always dubious. The health of the dear, dear Queen, always a concern. Fashion, always fickle.
Gossip was exchanged, jobs of work were bemoaned, and a good quantity of crumpets were consumed, except by Emma, who didn’t like gossip, who no longer had a job, and who, in the throes of heartbreak and depression, had eaten nearly a pound of chocolates the night before. Just looking at the tea tray laden with sweets made her feel a bit queasy.
They talked about dear Beatrice’s upcoming wedding. Beatrice glowed with happiness, and Emma tried very hard not to feel sorry for herself. Another subject discussed was, of course, Mrs. Bartleby’s public farewell, printed the day before. Everyone wanted details from Emma, but when she refused to discuss it, they thankfully dropped the subject.
She’d done the right thing, and she knew it, but that knowledge brought little comfort. She ached with missing him. The past week had been nearly unbearable, but today was the worst. It was Sunday afternoon, and she wasn’t lying in a hammock with Harry taking a nap. Now, she was back to sitting in Mrs. Morris’s parlor taking tea on Sunday afternoons.
She stared across the tea table to the settee, where Prudence and Maria were sitting, remembering the night Harry had whispered naughty, naughty things to her, remembering all those times at their cottage when he’d done them.
Emma averted her eyes, staring down at her teacup. She was no longer Mrs. Bartleby. She was no longer Scheherazade. She was no longer a man’s lover. She was back to being ordinary Emma Dove, halfway from thirty to thirty-one, and destined for terminal spinsterhood.
She attempted to be cheerful. She had started her novel, had seven pages, in fact. But she already feared it was going to be a romantic novel, and that thought made her depressed all over again. If she were not a person of character, she thought gloomily, it might behoove her to take up strong drink as other novelists were wont to do. She stared down at her cup with distaste. Gin, she thought, seemed much more appealing than tea.
She heard the front door open, felt the sharp gust of an autumn wind at her back, but she continued to stare into her teacup, uninterested in the new arrival.
And then, she felt it. An undefinable change in the room, a stirring, feminine flutter of interest in the air. Then she heard it, a sudden silence, except for the rustling of moreen petticoats and several tiny but unmistakable sighs. Then she saw it. Across from her, Prudence Bosworth and Maria Martingale simultaneously patted their hair.
Emma turned her head and looked over her shoulder. Unbelievable as it seemed, Harry was standing in the doorway of Mrs. Morris’s parlor, and at the sight of him, her heart turned over in her breast with that sweet, painful joy, then crashing pain.
She tore her gaze away, feeling a wild need to bolt from the room. She might have done it, too, if his tall, broad-shouldered frame wasn’t taking up the entire damned doorway.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said behind her, earning himself another round of fluttering feminine appreciation. “Mrs. Morris, so delightful to see you again. How well you’re looking. Tea? I say, that’s kind of you. I’d love a cup.”
Why, oh, why has he come here? she wondered in despair and desperation as introductions began all around her.
“Miss Bosworth. Miss Martingale. Miss Cole. A pleasure to meet you. Mrs. Inkberry, how do you do? Your husband’s bookshop is the finest in London.”
Emma closed her eyes. He was here to try and charm her back. Dread settled into her like a knot in her tummy, for she feared if he got her alone and started talking about taking off her stockings again, she’d be lost forever.
How fragile her convictions were, for one touch, one kiss, and any pride and self-respect she possessed would be gone. She would once again be his lover, and a willing one, too, enjoying those sweet, carnal pleasures with him. In secret. Until it was over and she got a necklace and a note.
Emma felt tea splash on her fingers, and she realized her hand was shaking. She clenched it tight around her teacup, so tight it was a wonder the delicate porcelain didn’t shatter.
His hands appeared in her line of vision. “You’ve spilled your tea, Miss Dove,” he said, his voice so gentle she couldn’t bear it. She watched one of his hands open over the rim of her cup, while the other closed around the edge of her saucer. He pulled at the dishes as if to take them from her, and she forced herself to relax her grip. The tea things and his hands vanished from her view.
“Ladies, as a mere man, I confess that I am not up to snuff in matters of etiquette.” He put aside her cup and saucer, then his hands reappeared in her line of vision, along with a handkerchief. He bent over her chair again, and to her utter astonishment, he took one of her hands in his. There was a collective intake of shocked feminine breath as he began to blot the spilled tea from her fingers with the square of white cambric.
“In light of my ignorance on the topic, it is providential that so many members of the fair sex are present,” he went on in the most ordinary tone imaginable, as if he were discussing the weather, as if touching her naked hands in this way were a perfectly acceptable thing for a man to be doing.
“My lord,” she whispered and cast a wild glance around the room, dismayed at their shocked faces. “Harry, stop it!”
His voice overrode her frantic whispering. “Ladies, I beg you will clarify for me one point in particular.” H
e tightened his grip on her fingers as she attempted to jerk free. “When a gentleman wishes to offer a lady his hand in marriage, does he go down on his knee?”
Without waiting for an answer, he sank down in front of her chair. Emma stared into those eyes as beautiful and blue as the ocean, so terribly afraid she hadn’t heard him right. But there was no teasing in his face. No devastating smile. He looked gravely beautiful.
“Advise me, Emma.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “How does a man go about proposing to the woman he loves?”
There were several dreamy sighs, and one most unladylike sound halfway between a sob and a snort. The latter, Emma greatly feared, had come from herself.
All of a sudden the ladies rose in unison as if jerked by invisible strings. Amid stifled giggles and whispers, they moved toward the door of the parlor and filed out. He glanced up, waiting until they had gone, waiting until the door had closed behind them, then he looked at her again. “I want to get everything right this time around, start off on the right foot, and all that, so I’ve got to do this proposing business in the proper way.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. Her wits felt thick like tar. “But you aren’t ever going to marry again. You’ve told me so. You’ve told everyone so. You even write editorials about it.”
“I’ll have to eat my words now, won’t I? Serves me right for being such a cynical fellow all these years.” He tilted his head to one side. “Tell me, at this point is it acceptable for the woman to dither in this fashion? Isn’t she supposed to just end the poor fellow’s suspense and say yes so he knows he hasn’t made a thorough idiot of himself?”
“No,” she choked. “He deserves to suffer until she’s convinced of the depth and sincerity of his affections.”
“Would a ring help?” He began patting his pockets.
“You brought an engagement ring?”
“Was I not supposed to? I hope the devil it fits,” he added, still searching. “Mrs. Morris told me your ring size, but—”
“Mrs. Morris knew about this?” Emma stared at him in amazement. “She knew you were going to propose?”
He stopped searching his pockets and studied her with pity, shaking his head as if he thought her a hopeless business. “How else was I going to ascertain your ring size? You wouldn’t believe the trouble she’s had sneaking into your rooms to steal one of your rings for comparison. You’ve been moping in your flat for days, I understand.”
“I have not been moping! I’ve been writing my novel.”
“My mistake. That’s what I get for listening to gossip.” He resumed his search. “All I can say is it’s a good thing you went out and bought chocolates yesterday. They must have been for Mr. Pigeon, though, since you’re not moping. Ah!”
With a cry of triumph, he pulled out a stunning band of platinum set with emeralds. “I hope you like it. Mrs. Morris wasn’t able to ring me up until yesterday to give me your ring size, but she said emeralds were your favorite. And then I had to go running up and down Bond Street all afternoon, visiting jewelers, trying to choose an emerald engagement ring.” He picked up her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. “It was torture, Emma. How you can find shopping an enjoyable activity baffles me.” He leaned closer, inspecting her hand. “Does it fit?”
It fit perfectly, but though she opened her mouth to tell him so, she couldn’t seem to speak. She closed her mouth again, staring stupidly at the beautiful band on her finger, watching it begin to blur before her eyes. Harry wanted to marry her? She still couldn’t quite take it in, couldn’t quite believe it.
He heaved a sigh. “I suppose if the lady is still not persuaded, some heroic gesture on the gentleman’s part is required?”
She swallowed hard and looked up, forcing herself to say something. “That would be nice,” she managed, “since I never got a proper courtship in honorable fashion.”
“Cruel, Emma. Very cruel.” He frowned, thinking a moment, then his brow cleared. “All right. To show you how much I love you, I’ll make the supreme sacrifice and let the Pigeon live with us. He can stalk the birds at Marlowe Park to his heart’s content. He doesn’t sleep with us, though. I will not wake up with cat hair in my mouth.”
She didn’t laugh. “Harry, do be serious for once.”
“I do talk a lot of nonsense, I know. You were right to say I’m a glib fellow. But the thing is—” He paused and took her hands in his. He took a deep breath. “I love you. I should have said it ages ago, I know, but it’s so damned hard to say the things that really matter, and falling in love with you was so gradual and so natural that I didn’t really even think about it. I mean, it wasn’t as if I just woke up one day and realized it. And when you told me you were ending things with us, I should have said it right then, but I was so stunned. I couldn’t believe it, you see. I couldn’t believe you were leaving me when I’d been thinking everything was perfect. It rattled me, Emma. It rattled me so badly, I couldn’t say anything, and then you were gone.”
“But do you really want to marry me? Are you sure?”
“Emma.” He let go of her hands and cupped her face. He kissed her mouth. “Dearest, sweetest Emma, when you walked out of my life, did you really think I could bear to let you go?”
“Oh, Harry!” Convinced beyond doubt, she tore her hands out of his and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you so!”
“And I love you.” He stood up, pulling her with him, and slid his arms around her waist. “So, even though I’m dissolute and inconsiderate and I’ll probably be late for the wedding, you are going to marry me?”
“Yes.” She began to laugh, her joy spilling over. “Yes. I will marry you.”
“Not that it really matters.” He pulled back and looked into her face, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. “We’re already married, you know. We just have to say the vows in church so all our friends know it, too.”
“Already married? What do you mean?” She frowned at him, puzzled. “Are you teasing me again?”
He laughed. “I’ll explain it to you later. Right now, I have something more important to do.” He lifted her face and bent his head.
And then he kissed her.
Emma tightened her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with passionate enthusiasm. After all, it was quite proper for a man to kiss a woman once they were engaged. Everybody knew that. Even Harry.
About the Author
LAURA LEE GUHRKE graduated from Boise State University with a business degree. After seven years in advertising, a stint as a caterer, and several years managing the offices of her parents’ construction and development companies, she decided writing was more fun. She has written twelve historical romances and has been honored with the prestigious RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America. Laura lives in Idaho. Please visit her on the web at www.lauraleeguhrke.com, or you may write to her at PO Box 1143, Eagle, ID 83616.
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By Laura Lee Guhrke
AND THEN HE KISSED HER
SHE’S NO PRINCESS
THE MARRIAGE BED
HIS EVERY KISS
GUILTY PLEASURES
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AND THEN HE KISSED HER. Copyright © 2007 by Laura Lee Guhrke. All rights res
erved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061736551
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