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

by Rebecca Ruger

  Her own response—dear God, his kisses were dangerous!—was another baffling thing altogether.

  Lady M’s earlier words, her warnings uttered inside her fine carriage trilled in Emma’s mind just now. He is toying with you, nothing more.

  She took out her frustration on him, the annoyance of not really knowing what was happening between them, the fear that Lady M had simply told the truth. In a ragged whisper, she insisted, “You need to make up your mind what it is you’re doing with me, or what you think of me, or what....You cannot one day tell me I look ravishing and then kiss me. But manage to look as if you don’t want to kiss me. And then act like nothing had happened. And then so wonderfully dance a waltz with me and now scold me for only speaking to a man and then...and then kiss me again even as you look as if you cannot stand the sight of me. I don’t understand this behavior. Do you? Do you even understand what you’re about? What motivates your kisses and your surliness and your sometimes very pleasant treatment of me?

  He stared at her hard. Finally, when she thought he might make some apology to her, he spoke, but his words only left her more befuddled.

  “Are the kisses in any way related to the sometimes very pleasant treatment?”

  It was perfect, actually, his flippant response. Perhaps she’d only just this evening, in the midst of that kiss and the immediate aftermath, convinced herself that he might have genuine and serious interest in her; maybe he, too, was plagued by thoughts of her, as she was so bloody often about him; maybe his wanting to kiss her was rooted in true affection; maybe this would not be her one and only visit to London, maybe she would be on his arm again.

  Reality crashed, with his words, and just in time.

  How ridiculous I am. I am falling in love with him, and I remain only a passing fancy to him, still the chambermaid from Hertfordshire that may or may not have been his father’s mistress.

  So the part of him that wrestled so often, trying not to kiss her—if she now understood everything accurately—was only whatever small amount of honor he did possess that would refuse him the opportunity to ruin her? Perhaps—and what did she know, really?—his baser self was attracted to the chambermaid, but his righteous self would not condone acting upon it, taking up with so low a creature.

  It didn’t matter. From the day she’d met him, they’d rather been at odds. It was wisest and safest that it remain that way.

  “I will, for the remainder of the evening, comport myself with greater restraint,” she told him, mentally shaking herself free of his hold, though he touched her not at all just now. Giving him what she truly hoped was a disdainful scowl, she turned on her heel and left him.

  She did not seek out Lady M, but found a quiet place upstairs, a room removed from the ballroom. The music room, she surmised easily, as a grand piano sat in one corner of the red papered room, and close to that, sat a tall and golden harpsicord, whose strings she idly plucked as she passed.

  “Ah, a melancholy note, if ever I heard one.”

  Emma jumped, yanking both her hands to her chest, and turned to find an elderly man sitting by himself upon an oversized red striped settee.

  “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t realize the room was occupied.”

  The man lifted tired green eyes to her, under thick brows that likely showed more hair than the top of his head, though above and around his ears, wiry gray hair was combed fashionably forward, toward his cheeks.

  “Do not apologize, my dear,” he said kindly.

  “Are you all right, sir?” She wondered and stepped much closer, concerned as he seemed to be listing to the left.

  At her voiced worry, he straightened himself. “Oh, I’m just fine. Biding time until we might go home.” He put his arm upon the roll arm of the settee and propped his chin in his hand.

  “May I?” Emma asked, and sat in the middle of the settee when he nodded and smiled at her. “Who might you be waiting for? Who is the other part of we?”

  “My son,” he said, his tone suggesting he’d been waiting for a while.

  “Have you eaten? I can fetch you—”

  He lifted a wrinkled hand and fluttered his fingers. “You are kindness itself, my dear, but I am not very hungry.”

  Emma thought to ask, “Do you mind the company, or shall I leave you alone?”

  The man pulled his chin from the palm of his hand and turned sideways to really look at her. “You are a very sweet young lady. I wouldn’t mind keeping company, but a nice girl like you probably wants to be dancing and watching some young fools fight over her.”

  Emma laughed at this. “This girl does not, sir. I am Emma Ainsley, and I am happy to keep you company. I think I’ve had enough of the fools, young and old, for the evening.”

  “Pardon me for truly being too weary to stand and make a respectable bow to you, Miss Ainsley.” But he shifted slightly and offered his right hand. “Hadlee. Very nice to meet you.”

  Emma put her hand in his and he squeezed it politely.

  “May I ask you something? It’s a little embarrassing.”

  He straightened, seemed livelier, suddenly. One thick brow rose above widened eyes. “Sounds intriguing. Ask away.”

  “I am not...anybody, rather an imposter here, truth be told, though I’ve come with the sponsorship of Lady Marston,” she was quick to clarify, as his brow had furrowed with her first words. “I don’t want to shame myself or the good lady, but when you introduce yourself as simply Hadlee...what does that mean? Is that your title? Your surname? And how should I address you?” As he appeared non-plussed, she bit her lip and covered her face with her hands. “How humiliating,” she murmured into her hands.

  “Now, now, Miss Ainsley,” the old man said, reaching over to pat her hands, pulling one away from her face. “You only surprised me, that is all. Do not fret. I gave you my title, Hadlee. When a person introduces themselves with only one name, you should assume a my lord. If I were not of the nobility, I would, I suppose, present myself with my given name and surname.” He scrunched up his lips. “Maybe just the surname. I am not entirely sure. Very pleased to meet you. I am Mr. Fiske.” He seemed to consider this further. “I don’t think anyone outside the peerage would say, Hullo, I am George Fiske.”

  Emma slapped her hand against her chest. “George Fiske?”

  The man laughed, the sound ancient and craggy. “Haven’t heard that in many years. I’ve been Hadlee for so long.”

  “But you are George Fiske?”

  He nodded. “Yes, have been my whole life. But you cannot address me as such in front of other persons. They tend to get a little—”

  Emma blurted out, “I found your letters. I have your letters to Caralyn Withers.”

  And now it was his turn to be astonished, to have his jaw fall open and stare at her as if she’d just announced she’d found the Holy Grail. But Emma nodded at him, her heart pounding with excitement.

  “How do you know Caralyn—who are you?”

  Shaking her head, Emma assured him, “I am nobody, I promise. But I’d been...staying with the Earl of Lindsey, at his house in Hertfordshire. I was...well, I was snooping one day, just looking around such a grand old house, and I found a stack of letters. I found the letters you wrote to Caralyn.” She smiled at him, while his face had gone as white as the marble floor. “What happened? Is she your wife?” Her eyes widened. “Is she here?”

  His entire thin body seemed to sink into the furniture, his shoulders slumped, his hands fell to his sides, his gaze dropped to his lap.

  “My lord?” Caralyn Withers was not his wife, she surmised. Emma’s heart and shoulders sank as well. “I’m sorry. How thoughtless of me. But I was so excited to know it was you—I didn’t even think that maybe....” She stopped when he began to shake his head.

  “Do not be sorry. I was only startled. I-I haven’t heard that name in forty years.”

  Emma sat silently, allowing the old man to collect himself and his thoughts.

  After many lon
g minutes, his shiny gaze found hers. “Forty years.”

  Softly, Emma said, “I cried over those letters. They were so beautiful.”

  He gave a grimaced smile. “I was mad about her.”

  “I know. It’s all written so plainly. What—may I ask what happened?”

  His frail shoulders lifted in a shrug. “She didn’t love me.”

  “That cannot be true,” Emma insisted, though wasn’t sure of this at all. But it mustn’t be true. With a nervous laugh, she admitted, “I fell a little in love with the George Fiske who penned those gorgeous words.”

  He sat back, straightening himself, slid his hands up and down his thighs. “I loved her the very moment I first saw her. She had come to London with Lady Julianne Morrissey, as her companion. She wasn’t of the nobility.”

  Emma did not interrupt but knew that name, Morrissey. It was, essentially, who she was pretending to be, a Morrissey relation.

  George Fiske turned and favored Emma with a kindly smile. “Like you, she stood out. You couldn’t not notice her. Of course, so many were turned off by her lack of good family, being only the poor relation. Ah, but she was remarkable, had the most amazing eyes, and her laugh was akin to angels singing, I swear to God.” He grinned again, at his own fancy, Emma was sure. “We met, we talked, we fell in love. Or so I thought. When the season was nearing an end, I begged her hand. She turned me down.”

  “But why?” Had been the burning question inside Emma for so long.

  “She never said,” he answered, his voice cracking. “All those letters and I had only one reply...asking me to stop.” He stared straight ahead, seeing only the past perhaps. “God, but she was stubborn, was so sure I was not sincere, meant only a dalliance.” With a smirk toward Emma, he admitted, “I was, truth be known, a bit of a rogue back then.”

  Emma smiled. George Fiske was very kind, perhaps mellowed with his advanced age. She tried to imagine what he might have been like, or looked like, in his youth.

  “But where is she? I had a sense she left Benedict House rather in a hurry.”

  George Fiske sighed, a great sadness oozing out of him. “I visited that house, and Caralyn just before Christmas, 1774. Lady Morrissey was very ill. Caralyn could, or would, barely make time for me. When her lady died three days before Christmas, she just disappeared—no notice, no word of where she might be going. She just...up and left...me.”

  “Lord Hadlee, I am so very sorry.”

  “You needn’t be. It was so very long ago.”

  “But you miss her still.”

  He made a face. “Only when I think of her.” He turned to Emma then, shifted actually to face her. “But you said you currently have the sponsorship of Lady Marston? She knew Caralyn Withers. They were rather brought up together, along with Lindsey’s mother, Barbara Morrissey. Lady Julianne was Barbara’s great aunt, if I recall correctly.”

  “Then Lady M might know what became of your Caralyn,” Emma suggested with some hopefulness.

  He shook his head. “I badgered her at the time. She hadn’t any more of a clue than I had. Curiously, Lady Marston—she was simply Lady Leticia back then—and I were expected to marry at one time. But I’d found Caralyn and she’d latched onto Marston, that we’d both begged off. Families weren’t too happy, but they allowed it—the Marstons were a very wealthy family.”

  “But you have a son, so you must have married after all.”

  A slow and thoughtful nod preceded his response. “Amelia Frere. Few years older than I. Seemed a safe choice, wouldn’t try to steal my heart from Caralyn, not that she could have. She wasn’t...awful. She just wasn’t Caralyn. Been gone now a decade, maybe more.”

  Emma chewed upon her lip as well as a thought. “Lord Hadlee, would you like to have those letters returned to you?”

  His face brightened, his brows lifted. “Do you think I might?”

  Emma laughed, “They are yours, my lord. Of course, you should have them.”

  He inclined his head and rubbed his hands on his thighs once again. “I would like that.”

  Emma passed the remainder of the night with George Fiske in the music room, barely giving any thought to the earl or Lady Marston, who may or may not be searching for her, or at least wondering where she might be. People came and went from the music room, others looking for quiet, away from the crush and noise of the ball itself. More than once, a young couple burst into the room, clearly hopeful of finding it empty, quickly departing when they realized it was not. After about a half hour, in which time Lord Hadlee and Emma traded more life tales and anecdotes of years gone by, a man stepped into the room, and did not leave upon spying the unlikely pair upon the settee but strode with purpose toward them.

  “My son,” Hadlee announced. As lively as he had been in the last half hour, his tone now soured. “Too much like his mother,” he whispered to Emma, then increased the volume of his voice to say, “Ah, there you are, Peter.”

  The man, whom Emma decided was not at all a younger version of George Fiske, stood before the settee and ogled Emma with a practiced leer. It was quite discomfiting.

  “Bloody Hades, Peter,” Lord Hadlee groused, “leave off with...whatever that pitiable expression is meant to convey. I read only desperation and nonsense.”

  “But won’t you introduce me, Father?”

  Peter Fiske was short where his father was lanky, was round as his sire was thin, and possessed a complexion of some misfortune, being blotchy and pocked. But his eyes, Emma noted, repelled her the most; dark and wild, alternating nervously from narrowed to widened, he gawked at Emma as if she were naught but a delicacy upon the buffet, and he a starving man.

  George Fiske stood from the seat. “I will not. She’s untarnished yet, to know persons such as you.” He extended his hand to Emma, bringing her to her feet as well. “I will see you returned safely to your Lord Lindsey.”

  “I can take her,” offered Peter, while spittle followed this suggestion out of his mouth.

  Both Lord Hadlee and Emma rather towered over Peter Fiske.

  “She’s not a pet, in need of a stroll,” Lord Hadlee sniped at his son and pulled Emma away from him. “I swear to God, Miss Ainsley, I tried for years to like him. I just cannot.”

  Emma pursed her lips at this sad circumstance, though she had recognized relatively quickly how different were Lord Hadlee and his son.

  They stepped out into the hall and actually ran into Lady Marston and the earl, who was settling the woman’s cloak about her shoulders near the front door.

  “There she is!” Lady M called out, sounding none too pleased. And then her breath noticeably caught as she saw who escorted Emma presently.

  “I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes,” the earl said with some reprimand, seeming unconcerned that they had an audience.

  Perhaps they did not. Emma ignored the earl and watched the silent exchange between Lady M and Lord Hadlee, hardly believing her eyes when she spied a flush creeping up the old woman’s cheeks.

  “Been a while, eh, Leticia?” Asked Lord Hadlee.

  “It has, George.”

  Emma’s head whipped around, looking at Lady M, trying to imagine from where this unknown person, of the quiet and lyrical voice and the blushing cheeks and soft eyes, had come. Emma covered her mouth with her hand, quieting her little snicker. Lady M was behaving like an overcome fifteen-year-old.

  She’s in love with him, Emma realized, her lip dropping open. Oh, my.

  “We might be getting a little too old for this, Letty,” said Lord Hadlee, his brow wiggling, his grin crooked.

  “Speak for yourself, Georgie,” Lady M returned, stomping her cane playfully. “This thing will see me through many more years. That, and two snifters of brandy daily.”

  Lord Hadlee chuckled. “Good to see you, Letty.”

  “You as well, old man.”

  Emma watched Lady M walk away, appearing straighter and taller than she thought she actually was. She glanced up at Lord Hadlee. He h
adn’t a clue, she realized, watching him put the woman out of his mind the minute she’d turned away. He faced Emma and asked, “Shall I really come down to your little cottage and collect my letters?”

  Emma took his hands in hers and smiled up at the dear old man. “You absolutely must.” She turned and found the earl, standing with Emma’s cloak tossed over his arm, watching her exchange with Hadlee. “Might Lord Hadlee be welcomed at Benedict House?”

  “Of course,” allowed the earl, clearly befuddled, even as he was so politely agreeable.

  Emma smiled at Lord Hadlee. “Send word to Benedict House of your plans. They will get any note to me.” She reached up and kissed his weathered cheeks, left then right. Squeezing his hands, she nearly squealed, “I am so thrilled to have met you. I cannot wait for your visit.”

  “What’s this? Benedict House?” Peter Fiske, having come into the foyer as well, wanted to know.

  George Fiske ignored his son. “You have made my day—my year, I daresay,” he said to Emma, tightening his cool fingers around hers. “I shall see you sometime in the next few weeks.”

  Emma allowed the earl to place her cloak over her shoulders. She further allowed his hands to settle there for a moment longer than they should have. She waved to Lord Hadlee and turned to leave with the earl, catching sight of Tristan Noel, idly lounging near a pillar by the stairs. He was grinning at her, and then dared to wink at her, even as she was sure the earl might have noticed this. And suddenly she didn’t care. She smiled at Tristan Noel, and waved to him as well.

  “Good night, Sir Mr. Right Honorable Tristan Noel,” she called out as she took the earl’s arm and stepped out of the grand house.

  Of course, her brazenness did not go unchastised. Once inside the earl’s black-as-night carriage, with only the lantern hanging and swaying within to give light, the earl announced, in a frosty tone, “Miss Ainsley, it would behoove you to recall whose sponsorship you bear. You should not have behaved so...familiarly with a man as esteemed as Lord Hadlee. And you certainly should not have been so careless with Beckwith. He is a libertine of the first water.”