If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Emma once again sat across from the Earl of Lindsey in his carriage, this one with an open top as the day was fine, the last vestiges of a cool and rainy spring seemingly evaporated altogether. As usual, she stole glances at him, still enamored of his handsomeness, if not his charm. Since his edict of three nights ago that she remain at Benedict House until a dwelling might be found for her, he had proven to be a foreboding presence. He’d insisted she dine with him, had been incensed when she politely refused, and then had proven a disagreeable host throughout the meal when she did appear in the Paneled Room, after he’d storm her apartments and angrily demanded her presence.

  He’d presented her—via Mrs. Conklin, who was proud to effuse over ‘his lordship’s bounty’—with several more gowns and garments and slippers and cloaks, and so much more for Bethany. Again, she’d tried to resist, but to no avail. So she sat now across from him, dressed gaily in a white cotton empire-waist gown, with the most adorable shoes, adorned with pink ribbons; and she sported a thoroughly clever bonnet, such as she had never seen, trimmed with ribbons and pearls and protecting her not quite fair skin from the bright sun. She only wished she felt as merry as she was sure she looked.

  They were on their way to a small property and house he’d found, thinking it a possibility for her new home. Emma was not excited. This would be their third venture out, visiting cottages for sale. Thus far, the earl had proven to be a very discriminating buyer, finding fault with everything from the size of the rooms (“too small”), to the state of the yard (“those tracks had looked like mole tunnels”), to the ineptness of the caretaker (“he was a drunkard, I tell you”).

  Presently, they sought out the Daisies Cottage, located on the edge of Hertfordshire, the closest village being Perry Green. The carriage ambled carefully down a leafy lane to the secluded property, both Zach and Emma turning their heads to view the house as it came into view. The stone and ivied house was nestled into a valley and Emma could see that coming out the front door, painted a merry shade of bright blue, would lead a person directly upon meandering lanes and within sight of breathtaking views of the valley and the farmland. On the north side, there was an apple and pear orchard and there sat within this, two wicker chairs and a small table.

  She thought the place charming upon first sight, and possibly the perfect size for her plans, but dared not let her hopes rise as the earl was likely to find it unacceptable.

  When the carriage stopped, the earl disembarked and offered his hand. Emma placed her gloved hand in his, attempting to pay no heed to the spark of heat that raced through her with every small touch of his. For three days, she’d steadfastly refused to recall his kiss, though had been successful in this endeavor only rarely, but determined that there be no repeat of that embrace; her body and mind had thrilled at his touch then, and this was apt to cause her nothing but heartache.

  Mentally shaking herself, she stepped from the carriage and happily onto solid ground. The ride had not been overlong, but Emma found herself a bit stiff from holding such an immobile posture in his close company.

  “This is lovely indeed,” she said, waiting for the inevitable fault-finding mission to begin.

  “So far, yes,” he surprised her by agreeing.

  A man appeared then from around the side of the cottage, moving slowly upon legs that seemed to present him knee-first. “You’d be the earl,” he guessed. “This here is our Daisy cottage, though I ain’t seen daisies here in thirty years.”

  He spoke as slowly as he walked and had perhaps seen years numbering more than seventy, Emma guessed. She watched him shift upon his bent legs, and tuck one hand into his rope belt while the other pushed the thin and longish hair off his forehead. “Oh,” he said then, with a slap at his forehead. “I’d be Henry, the caretaker. Suppose you’d be wanting to see the inside.” And without awaiting a reply, he sauntered leisurely toward the front door.

  Emma passed an appreciative glance over the flower boxes that graced the two windows which flanked the front door. She frowned and looked to the earl to see if he’d noticed the prolific abundance of daisies within these boxes. He had, apparently, for he offered her a small yet disarming grin at their presence of the pretty blooms, certainly after Henry had specifically mentioned the lack thereof.

  They followed Henry into the cottage and Emma was immediately delighted with the open floor plan. The foyer was set with well-kept flagstone and the walls were papered charmingly in a dainty floral print. Directly across from the door, a wooden staircase with engraved trim, uncarpeted, reached the second floor. To the left was a parlor with knotted beams upon the high ceiling, the room filled with pretty furniture. To the right was a small study, the walls lined with shelves and shelves of books, the room bright despite its heavy woodwork.

  Henry said not a word but walked by these rooms, leading them down a wide hallway next to the staircase, to the rear of the house, where sat the kitchen. This room was small, but again the high ceiling afforded it a larger appearance and Emma saw that there was, aside from the usual kitchen fixtures, a pump within a tall and wide sink basin. They followed Henry, who continued on through a wide pantry and into the back hall. There, he painstakingly mounted a narrow spiral staircase and walked down the well-lit corridor upon the second floor. The earl pushed open each of the three doors to reveal three bedchambers, all bright and pretty and well-furnished. A fourth door, open to reveal large windows presently letting in ample sunshine, showed a modest sitting room, which connected to one of the bed chambers.

  Henry pointed slowly to another door, further down the hall. “Stairs to servants chambers, four of ‘em, and maybe some storage or what have you.”

  At the end of the hallway, Henry turned a small corner and began to descend the stairs, which brought them back to the main foyer. “Well, there ye be,” he said, and seemed to wait for an instant decision. Emma cast questioning eyes toward the earl. “Oh,” Henry said then, “and the small dining room is through the parlor there.” He pointed in the general direction with his thumb. “Meets the kitchen, too, after the pantry.”

  Emma nodded, thinking this was by far her favorite of the houses they had toured, but inwardly thought it silly to get her hopes up for surely this lease would be beyond her means, whatever they may be. And then she nearly collapsed when the earl looked at her and asked if she liked it. Had she not been so surprised by this solicitation, she might have better considered his motive here—he hadn’t asked her opinion at the previous three cottages they’d seen. But she did like this place, very much so. “I do. It’s very bright and the yard is lovely. It’s not too far from Perry Green, within walking distance I imagine, on a fine day.” She watched the earl nod at her. To Henry, she dared to ask, “How much to let the house month to month?” She watched Henry look to the earl and had a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to discussing business with a female.

  “Emma—“ the earl began.

  “For sale, milord, not to lease,” Henry said at the same time, looking at the earl.

  Emma’s heart sank. She didn’t know much about the cost of things, but she knew for sure an outright purchase was out of the question. “Oh,” was all she said. Dejected, Emma felt her shoulders slump, supposing this perfectly charming place no longer an option. She lifted a re-animated gaze, however, when she heard the earl say, “We’ll take it, then.”

  Emma turned sharply. “My lord?”

  But he paid her no mind, other than to place his hand at the back of her arm when she neared him, telling Henry that he should inform his employer—Lord Darby, the current owner—that his solicitors would be ‘round to make the deal. With that, Henry tipped his head politely at the earl and then again to Emma and the earl steered her out of the cottage.

  “My Lord,” Emma protested, “for Bethany’s sake, I am not against accepting your father’s bequest, but I don’t think—“

  “Good, then don’t start,” the earl clipped, causing Emma to frown yet more. “Trust me, there is plenty. And y
ou’ve still quite enough left to see to your daily needs.”

  She had no idea what she’d done to incur this present ill-humor of his—he’d asked if she liked it; she answered yes, that was all. So why was he angry now? she wondered. She allowed him to hand her into the phaeton once more and they made the twenty-minute drive to Benedict House in complete silence, but she was ever aware of the ticking vein at his temple, as he allowed her to view only his profile.

  Chapter Seven

  Once returned to Benedict House, Emma clambered out of the phaeton before the earl might have been of assistance. She would be thrilled to be well gone from him. True, he’d done her a kindness to purchase so costly a house for her, but that benevolence, offered so abrasively, seemed then not a kindness at all. And she was reminded that it wasn’t his kindness at all, but his father’s. Emma began to believe that he was as anxious as she to have her gone from his home. She bothered not to hide her distress and made no excuse but ran directly up the stairs without even the politeness of a by-your-leave.

  The man was insufferable, she decided, and found it then impossible not to compare his dastardly nature with that of his charming father, once again finding the present earl much lacking. And oh, how she missed Michael!

  Emma reached her rooms just as Mrs. Conklin was exiting the nursery next door. The plump housekeeper put her index finger to her lips. “She’s just gone down for her nap, Miss. She was an angel, to be sure.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Conklin,” Emma replied. “It was nice of you to look after her.”

  “‘Tis no trouble, Miss, though truly I don’t know how you’ll manage when you leave.”

  Leave, she couldn’t do soon enough, Emma thought irritably but showed this not to the kindly housekeeper. “We’ll manage just fine, Mrs. Conklin. Truthfully, I’m not much used to having so much free time. We’ll settle back into our old ways, just Bethany and me,” she offered, though other ideas had recently come to her. She turned then, feeling him near. As Mrs. Conklin moved away from Emma and down the corridor, Emma saw that the earl had reached the second-floor landing. His face was set into the same scowl it had shown most of these last few days, yet his eyes seemed to devour her, and this severe stare sent Emma scurrying into her room.

  Emma spent the remainder of the day by herself, and then with Bethany when the child awoke. She’d already decided that she would absolutely not join the earl for dinner and would bar the door if need be, but she needn’t have bothered with these ponderings, for she was informed by Thurman later in the day that the earl had sent his apologies—he would be dining with friends this evening. Emma might have squealed her joy at this lucky turn, but instead enjoyed a more relaxed evening, having not to fear the earl’s changeable moods and dark, brooding stare.

  When Bethany had been sleeping for nearly an hour, Emma lifted her from her own bed and pushed open the door to the nursery, gently laying the babe into the tall crib. She left the door ajar, and then left her own room intent on finding Bethany’s doll, which must have been abandoned or forgotten somewhere downstairs.

  Tying the sash of her dressing gown more securely about her, she searched the darkened parlor and then the sitting room, but to no avail. The house was quiet at this hour, and honestly, she felt a little like a thief sneaking around, trying so hard since she’d come to this overwhelming house to go unnoticed. This was not a simple thing to do, Bethany making herself known even as Emma would rather not.

  Actually, she hadn’t been able to recall when last she’d seen the doll, and began to wonder if some tidy servant had only removed it from the floor of some room. She peeked into yet another room on the first floor, surprised to find what must be the earl’s study. The room was large and gorgeous, with dark paneling and an entire wall of long windows, allowing moonlight to show her that indeed Bethany’s doll was atop the desk at the far side of the room. She snuck in, not quite sure why she bothered to tip-toe and even less sure how the doll might have found its way here. She breathed a startled gasp as she saw that behind the desk on the wall of gleaming paneling hung a beautiful portrait of Michael.

  “Oh,” she moaned, and tears formed instantly. She covered her mouth with one hand just as the other grabbed hold of the doll from the desk. Oh, but wasn’t he so handsome, and stately, and fine? The painting must have been done years before, as his hair showed not the liberal gray that he’d gained by the time she had known him; his eyes were as wonderfully kind as she remembered; he was depicted from the thighs up, dressed in a clever high-collared waistcoat and tailcoat and a finely tied cravat of sumptuous creamy silk. Emma smiled at the almost Byronian hairstyle, his darker locks swept forward and to the right across his forehead. “Oh, how I miss you.” Her shoulders slumped. Aside from memories, too few at that, this was all she might ever have of him. She determined that she would bring Bethany here tomorrow, she would insist the child not forget this dear man.

  She almost turned away, her sorrow heavy just now, but then decided to sit and visit with him for a while. With a pleased smile, thinking he might enjoy her company, she scooted behind the desk and turned the heavy side-armed chair all the way around until it faced the portrait. She sat in the chair, pulled her knees up to her chest, her feet just at the edge of the seat, and hugged the doll he’d bought for Bethany, being now within only feet of the painting.

  “I wish you were here right now, my friend.”

  The portrait was perfect, in that it showed the hint of a smile that seemed always to hover about his lips. His eyes nearly danced, so that Emma imagined whoever had put his image to canvas must have known him fairly well. Emma smiled back at him.

  Zachary Benedict stood frozen at the opposite side of the room, having risen from the very desk chair in which she now sat, simply to refill his brandy snifter. The door opening had lifted his gaze, and Miss Ainsley’s creeping had kept him still, though a frown had come. Suspicion had faded as soon as she’d reached for the doll, which he had noticed upon his desk earlier.

  Tucked in the shadows of the far corner, she had yet to notice his presence, and Zach hadn’t moved a muscle to alert her that she was not alone in the room. Her gasp, when she’d spied his father’s portrait had nearly startled him. And then she’d done the most remarkable thing, pivoting the chair and sitting down, staring at his father, seeming only to want to spend time with him.

  Whispers of her soft words reached him. Honestly, he was a bit surprised at her referring to him as her friend. He might have supposed, as she thought herself alone with him, she might have been unguarded enough to perhaps refer to him as my love or some such nonsense. My friend gave him pause. And then all the words that followed, as she talked quietly to his father, laid out so many truths to him, most that he’d refused to see or believe until now.

  “I’m going to bring Bethany here tomorrow,” she was saying, “I don’t want her to forget you.” Zach thought she might be crying, her voice cracked as she continued, “I wish I had known the last time I saw you was going to be...the last time I saw you. I would have used the time to tell you how wonderful you were. I would have told you I cherished every minute we’d spent together. I’m sorry I was often so resistant to all the help you tried to give to me. Honestly, I didn’t understand it. Maybe it frightened me a little—people are so rarely kind for no other reason than to be kind. But you were. So ridiculously kind.”

  Still immobile near the small liquor cabinet, the fine crystal glass held at waist height in one hand, the brandy decanter in the other, Zach waited, afforded only a view of the top of her head over the back of the chair. She was quiet for a long time, her head tilted against the leather of that chair, glancing upward. “I remember the first night you came to the inn, when my finger was broken. You were so natural, so gentle with Bethany. She’d known Mr. Smythe all her little life and had never taken to him as she had to you. Just like that. It was so remarkable to see. We don’t need to talk again about the spoiling—you know well my thoughts on this, as I do yours.” Z
ach thought he detected a hint of a smile in her voice.

  Another long pause, and her tone changed, was less soft. “Your son, Michael—we should talk about your son. Honest to God, Michael,” she was saying, “you did no favors to me by your descriptions of him. All that fatherly pride prepared me not at all for exactly...how different from you he is. He’s so...angry, it seems. Or just obstinate, I don’t rightly know. Were you like that at his age, and just mellowed throughout the years? I cannot imagine that your beloved Barbara instilled such hardness in him. Oh my God, Michael! Did you spoil him as well? Is that why he’s so adamant about everything being done his way? Always being right? Looking down his nose at a person...”

  Zach’s eyes widened. So much revealed just here, so many opinions then to put to those sparse and wary looks she so often gave him.

  She carried on, “It’s not your fault though. He’s a grown man, all his decisions—to be mean or not to be—are his own. But I tell you now, Michael, if I find out you somehow inferred, or outright said to your son that Bethany is your daughter, I promise you, we are going to have words when next we meet. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine where he came upon that notion—so, apologies to you, my friend, I’m blaming you until I hear or know otherwise. Yes, I’ve told him the truth. He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in his eyes. Oh, and the best part, which I’m sure you are already aware of: he doesn’t mind looking down his nose at me—a taproom jade, he thinks—but what does he do at first opportunity? He kisses me. Did you see that?” She harrumphed then, and God help him, Zach almost burst out laughing.