Emma looked at Mr. Smythe. He nodded at his wife’s words, and surprised Emma by gently touching her arm, a gesture of appreciation.
A quick rapping sound brought all eyes to the door, where Peter stood, wringing his hat in his hand. He looked apologetic, but said, “Miss, I hate to hurry ye, but I’m needing to get back to Benedict House—ye as well, I imagine.”
“Oh, yes, Peter,” Emma answered hurriedly, “I’ll be along shortly—very quickly,” she amended, when he appeared unsure. Emma looked at Langdon and Alice, smiling hopefully. “You’ll come, too, right?”
“Of course they will!” Mrs. Smythe insisted, her tone motherly.
Langdon shuffled his feet just for a moment, his face reddening with this attention, as all eyes rested on him. “Aw, miss, I ain’t nowhere else to go. Yer all I have, I guess. I can be helpful.”
Impulsively, Emma hugged him, so happy to have these people back in her life. “I know you can, Langdon. You’re going to love the house!” She turned to Alice. “You will love the Daisies Cottage, it’s just perfect—"
“I appreciate the offer, I truly do, Emma,” Alice interrupted her. “But I will be all right here.”
Emma thought she looked sincere. They had never been close, but they had shared so much over all these years passed. “Alice, you must,” she said softly.
Mr. Smythe spoke up. “Alice, girl, there just isn’t much opportunity here, we’re finding out.”
Alice raised her shoulders. “There could be. I’ll be all right.”
“Alice,” Mrs. Smythe cried, “ye must come with us.”
“You have always been fair to me, the both of you,” Alice said, looking suddenly, uncharacteristically sheepish, “but I think it’s time I moved on. I want—need—something other than a cottage in the dead of the country.” With what appeared to be a false bravado, she added, “I’ve been thinking for some time now to be heading to London anyhow. What family I do have, they’re all there.”
Emma saw that Mrs. Smythe’s bottom lip hung open. Mr. Smythe only nodded, saying nothing. Langdon was still staring at Emma.
Emma tried to think of something else to say to Alice to change her mind. But Mrs. Smythe spoke first.
“If yer sure, dear...?”
Alice nodded, trying to smile to back up her words. But to Emma, she only looked guarded and somehow peeved.
“Miss,” Peter prompted again from the doorway. He seemed unperturbed, perhaps only uninterested in the scene he’d witnessed, but eager to be on his way.
Emma nodded, and retrieved Bethany from Mrs. Smythe. “I must go. I’ll return, or send word, once we’re settled at the house. Hopefully, it will be soon.” She quickly kissed Mrs. Smythe and called goodbye to all. She stopped once more in front of Alice. “Be safe, Alice. Come back if you need to.”
Alice nodded again. “Goodbye.”
Chapter Eight
Some part of her—the part that wasn’t hounded by so much intrigue over the earl—was happy to be informed that he was gone to London for the day, and would she mind taking her supper in her rooms. This suited Emma perfectly, as she had yet to find ease with the sometimes practice of handing the child off to a servant while she’d partaken of meals with the earl in the dining room.
Later that night, she tucked Bethany into her crib just as a wild summer storm began to kick up. Fortunately, Bethany had fallen asleep before the thunder began to sound in earnest. Emma stayed inside the nursery for quite a while, making sure she wasn’t wakened and frightened by the storm. When the rains seemed to be moving away, and the thunder and lightning began to fade, Emma finally sought her own bed. She had no difficulty falling asleep herself, as she found herself of late to be rather emotionally exhausted by day’s end.
She woke to the sound of a huge crack of thunder pealing across the night sky. She leapt from the bed, imagining that if this round of thunder and lightning had woken her, it might frighten Bethany as well. But she heard no crying as she quietly walked through the connecting door to the nursery, which she always left open. Stepping within the room, she stopped suddenly upon finding the earl already there.
Her heart beat faster at just the sight of him. Dressed only in his black trousers, he must have heard Bethany wake whilst in the midst of preparing for bed. His back was to Emma, and Bethany’s sleepy head was just visible over the top of his shoulder. He was soothing Bethany with a soft hum and a slight, fluid rocking motion.
Emma could only stare, half aghast at this picture—at the very fact that he seemed so tenderhearted as to be found rocking a frightened child to sleep—and half breathless as she hungrily absorbed the sight of his naked back and arms. The Earl of Lindsey boasted a magnificent figure; in the dim light, afforded by the open door to the connecting room she’d not yet dared to explore, he was a bronzed god of sinewy muscle; shadows danced merrily over this contour and that hollow of his skin; the very size and chiseled purpose of his arms alone brought her hand to her chest, as if that might still the rising rate of her heart. True it was that Emma had labored many years at an inn, but she had never seen a nearly naked man before, and still, somehow, she was quite sure that none could rival the form of this man.
Lightning streaked just as he moved to lay a sleeping Bethany down, and the noise paused him for a moment. He waited until he was certain she remained asleep and then did stretch his magnificent form over the edge of the baby’s crib. Skin and muscle moved in conjunction with his reach, shapes appeared and disappeared, arms flexed and tightened.
Emma sighed just as he righted himself again, which did not go unnoticed; he turned rather sharply, affording her a fine view of his bare chest and lean abdomen. A sparse matting of hair was centered directly below his jaw, beginning at his chest and thinning to one straight line which stretched low and dipped beneath his trousers. His nipples, bare as a newborn come into the world, were dark and small, but peaked enticingly. The very shape of his chest was foreign to her, being that his was squarish while hers was round, his being firm while hers was soft.
She knew he watched her gawking at him but could not seem to move her eyes away from his person, being as entranced as she was. Only when he strode to her, Emma vaguely noticing the long and lean bare feet upon the carpet, did she finally look into his eyes. He kept coming though, seething, it appeared, breathing heavily through his nose. Without stopping, he grabbed her arm in a near-bruising grip, turned her around, and dragged her back into her own chambers. Dark eyes on her, he closed the door to the nursery almost completely with one hand, still holding her with the other.
Neither had yet to say a word, Emma having been rendered speechless while under the profound influence of his glorious form. When she spun around, and they faced each other so closely, she still could neither manage words nor take her eyes from his chest. A rare boldness, called forth by the intoxicating sight of him raised her free hand and set it on his chest. Slender fingers grazed the short, wiry hair of his chest, short tapered nails found the heated skin there. He drew a deep breath at her tentative foray. This drew her eyes to his, reading him, trying to interpret that feral gleam.
And then reality, and embarrassment, flooded her. Yanking her hand away, she curled her fingers into her palm just as he said, “Don’t stop.”
Emma shook her head, mortified, even more so as she was quite sure she discerned a lazy smile in his tone.
A taproom jade, indeed! She’d just unknowingly vindicated him of any outrage she might have felt or sustained from the kiss he’d taken from her only days ago. Closing her eyes against a shame that, while powerful, was unlikely to aid her in undoing the last few moments and her unseemly behavior.
She pulled at the hand he still held and pivoted. But he would not allow her to turn away from him.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at him now. She heard his heavy breathing, felt the stiffness come to him with her actions. And reactions. She swallowed hard, and shook her head again, lest he think to pursue this madness further.
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“I don’t know why I—” Staring at the huge and rumpled bed, she was only peripherally aware of his nod, controlled, silent. He glared at her a moment more. He wanted to say something, she knew, but he did not. Finally, he released her hand, turned on his heel and left her room, slipping through the nursery door the way he had come.
The next morning, Emma approached the earl in the breakfast room, her cheeks unpleasantly flushed, her lips dry with distaste, and her stomach filled with dread. She’d mumbled through some atrocious apology, excuses such as “I haven’t a notion what I was thinking...I was imbued with sleep yet,” and, “You so caught me by surprise...having no shirt...” coming not so pluckily as she’d have liked them to. He’d lifted his head from his morning paper, considering her with a mute starkness about him that frightened her yet more. When he’d made no immediate response, even as his gaze had seemed to soften, Emma had flown from the room, nearly in tears, heedless of his eventual call for her to return.
She had avoided him for the next several days, quite sure that mortification alone might send her to an early grave. Never in her life had she behaved so wantonly as she had that eve with him. To her own self, she admitted that never before had she reason to be so tempted into shamelessness. She constantly chided herself, since then, that his figure alone should not have sent her into such depravity, and that his supreme gentleness and regard for Bethany was his only saving grace. Considering the man as a whole, Emma determined that he’d been rude and oppressive and autocratic since the very moment they had met. She wasn’t so naïve as to not understand what he thought of her. And now her own actions supported his belief!
Three days after what Emma now privately referred to as Her Inglorious and Reckless Blunder, the earl came upon her and Bethany taking a stroll, off the terrace and around the well-manicured grounds of Benedict House.
As his stride was quite purposeful across the trim and tidy lawns, Emma was immediately sent into a dither, gathering Bethany into her arms, turning slightly so that the wind stopped blowing the frill of her pretty bonnet into her face.
He stopped, several feet away from them, bending one knee while he kept weight on the other, his fine tall hat in his hand, tapped against his thigh. He was dressed formally and must have then, she presumed, just returned from London, as he so often favored fawn breeches and muslin shirts when here in the country.
When he seemed content only to stare at her, she lifted a brow to him, imagining—hoping—that his arrival was occasioned by some intent other than raking her rather severely with his inscrutable gaze.
He cleared his throat.
“I thought to take Bethany riding with me today,” he said.
Emma did not know what to make of what sounded like uncertainty in his voice. She wondered if any living soul could claim to have ever heard such hesitancy from this man.
And then he said, “Mayhap you would like to accompany me as well. Riding, that is,” which served only to confound Emma yet more. She was acutely aware that she knew nothing about anything, but didn’t this just sound so fantastically like a polite invitation?
An invitation. From the earl. To spend time with him.
She felt that wicked wind send the skirts of her fine cotton gown firmly against her thighs. It whipped the fabric into a caress, pushing the skirts out and away from her, surely highlighting every curve and line of her legs. His gaze dipped there and then retreated as the wind faded, finding her eyes again as he awaited a reply.
Mulishness was the only motivation she could conceive to refuse him. But she thought he should know, “Of course I don’t ride, my lord.” She couldn’t imagine why he might think that she could. “But I’m sure Bethany would enjoy the occasion.” Truly, there was no reason to deny the child any experience merely to save herself from awkward situations, which seemed to consist of any time spent in the earl’s presence.
She wouldn’t have said he appeared, then, particularly disappointed as he strode toward her and lifted his hands to Bethany, who happily removed her arms from around Emma’s neck and reached for him.
“Would you care to learn to ride?” He surprised Emma by asking then.
As she imagined she might never own her own horse, and while the idea took flight that she could never hope to have control over such a large beast, she shook her head. “I think not.” As he stood there, just watching her once more, she wondered if he only awaited more words from her, that she thought to add, “But I thank you for the offer.” His expression did not change. And he did not move, not even to bear himself and Bethany to the stables to find a mount. Awkwardly, Emma gave a brief smile and lifted her skirts. “I’ll await Bethany’s return at the house then.” And she walked away—which seemed a perfectly acceptable thing to do, given that he’d said so little, and had just stated that he aimed to ride just now. Without turning back to see, she knew that he hadn’t moved yet, and had the unnerving and cheek-pinkening notion that he still stared at her, that it took so much more effort to walk straight and with seeming calmness. Meanwhile, the wind continued to bedevil her, at one point lifting her skirts nearly to her knees.
Once returned to the house, and without a chore to attend, she wondered to Mrs. Conklin if she might only wander around the house, curious about the stately home but unwilling to trespass if it might be frowned upon.
Mrs. Conklin only shrugged. “It is only the earl and yourself in residence, miss. Aside from his personal chambers, if a door should be unlocked, feel free to explore. Of course, the ground floor is all servants’ quarters but the first and second and third stories will show you some very pretty rooms, even if they rarely see any visitors these days.”
“Does the earl not ever entertain?” Emma asked.
“The earl finds all his entertainments in the city, miss. Haven’t hosted an event here since the countess lived, and that’s more than a decade ago.”
Emma guessed she might have only assumed that people of wealth and consequence regularly held dinner parties and soirees, or similar frivolities. She thanked the housekeeper and found her own chambers, where she discarded her bonnet and jacket and then returned to the hall. With her hands on her hips, she glanced up and down the corridor, choosing where to start. Surely, this floor was mostly or only bedchambers, the Lindsey family apartments. She walked to the end of the hall and ascended a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor, peeking inside the first door she came upon. A disappointing beginning, as this room might well have at one time been a small but pretty bedroom but seemed now to have been relegated to that of a catch-all. Boxes and crates and furniture crammed every inch of floor space, appearing as if each new addition was only set just inside the door and pushed forward into an ever-growing mountain of discarded things.
Hoping to find something of greater interest, Emma proceeded to the next door. And then the next and the next, each of which showed only many bedchambers, grander than any servants’ accommodations but not as stately as the second floor apartments. She had never seen so many chambers all under one roof. To some degree, almost every chamber had, over the years, been inhabited or suffused with odd furniture and more items of storage, that not one of them held particular appeal to Emma. Save for the third-to-the-last door she might have peeked inside. She paused just inside this room, taken aback by how much finer and frillier this room was than any other, made especially appealing as it had escaped the notice or intent of persons looking to stash no longer needed household elements.
She stepped fully inside, taking in the overall pink tone, still dominant despite the advent of dusty linens covering so much of the furniture and even the bed. The walls and carpets and window treatments all bore some design of pink, striped curtains and chintz floral wallpaper and a thick Aubusson carpet which once might well have been as bright as magenta.
Emma lifted the edges of one piece of linen, showing the subtly glossed wood of an armoire. Another lifted linen showed a pretty carved wood writing desk. Absently, Emma flipped the line
n completely out of the way and opened the desk drawer. Or tried to. The drawer stuck but she had the impression that it only did so because too many papers were trapped inside, a hint of these seen from the barely open drawer. Facing the desk squarely, she gave another good tug, and then slipped her fingers within until she moved enough of the impediment away that it finally pulled open. It was indeed crammed with papers, flat and folded letters in a bold, hard-pressed script.
Emma withdrew the topmost letter, turning over the heavy paper to reveal it had been signed and sent by a George Fiske. A quick glance at the others indicated the lettering was all the same, the messages having come from the same person.
A scrawled phrase, until we meet again, caught Emma’s eye. The date at the top of the letter read January, 1774. Curious, yet considering the aged letters fair game as she could likely injure no living person with her snooping, Emma read the entire letter, finding that whoever George Fiske was, he suffered quite a distant passion for “My darling Caralyn”, who was, the envelopes said, a Caralyn Withers.
My love has made me selfish. Were that your hand were fast in mine.
Thus intrigued, Emma scooped up the entire contents of the drawer, all the letters, and found a pretty pink ribbon strewn and crinkled within the stack. At one time, these love notes had been tied neatly together. Emma considered that she’d found the drawer untidy, and immovable because of the messy business within. Had someone, at some time, come looking for a particular missive? Had they been frantic, ripping away the ribbon, and leaving the chaos behind?
Turning, Emma walked across the room and sat on the floor just at the edge of the once bright rug and beneath the set of double windows which afforded plenty of sunshine for reading. Thinking George and Caralyn’s story would reveal itself more efficiently if the letters were put in order by the date of their writing, she took the time to do this, trying to keep any remaining envelopes still connected to its rightful contents. When she’d organized them, she counted twenty-eight letters. Leaning her back against the side of the linen shrouded bed, Emma began to read George Fiske’s words.
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 9