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

by Rebecca Ruger

  A breathless and disbelieving cry was her response. Her lips moved for several seconds before words came. “No,” she said in a weak voice. She began to shake her head now. “You are not. You cannot be.”

  “You’re going to tell me how I feel?” He stepped closer.

  Emma held up her hand, which stopped him from reaching her. “I’m telling you I do not—would never, actually—believe it. And let us focus on the matter at hand—”

  “The matter at hand?” He returned sharply, incredulously. “The matter at hand? Is it not this?” Again, he indicated the bed, “What we’ve just done? Are you supposing I coerced, or—or forced you? Is that why you’re upset?”

  Emma jabbed her own finger at the bed, and shouted at him, “I’ve told you it means nothing! The issue here is your high-handedness, and me having reached the end of my rope in all regards to it. I was forced—Bethany and I were forced—to trudge home, the entire two miles, in the dark and in the rain, because you thought you had some right—” she broke off, and turned her head toward the side door. Her lips parted while she listened.

  Zach’s gaze followed hers, and he, too, heard the soft whimper of Bethany’s cry. Throwing him an accusing glare, Emma rushed into the next room, where he heard her cooing tenderly and consolingly.

  Frustrated beyond words, he ran his hands through his hair, and stared at the floor. He understood her anger to some degree. He shouldn’t have acted with such disregard for her desire for that position at Madame Carriere’s. But he’d told her it was a bad idea. He’d made clear all the reasons it would not suit. Whatever his methods, he had only her best interest at heart.

  After what they had just shared, how could her rage still be so enormous? Zach was at a loss. For the amazing step forward he’d taken with her tonight, he also knew he’d suffered an impossible setback, taking many huge steps in reverse. It did not completely make sense to him. Not that he’d purposefully used it as a means to hopefully lessen her anger over his part in the loss of the damn job, but it seemed to him that their lovemaking should have softened her wrath a bit. She couldn’t possibly and actually mean what she’d said, that what they’d just done meant nothing to her.

  He turned, lifted his own weary gaze to her when she reappeared, clutching Bethany to her. He supposed this, now, meant their discussion was at an end. Likely to Emma’s chagrin, Bethany realized his presence and reached her chubby little hands out to him, whimpering still as she called his name. Zach walked toward the pair, intent on soothing her daughter, but Emma shook her head.

  “No, darling,” she said, her voice gentled for Bethany, “the earl was just leaving. Say goodbye to him.”

  Not goodnight.

  Bethany accepted this, and turned her head, laying it upon Emma’s shoulders, mumbling something, which he guessed was his farewell.

  Ignoring Emma’s still wrathful mien, he did approach, and pressed a kiss onto Bethany’s head. “Goodnight, moppet.” Pivoting, his movements angry and brusque, he scooped up his boots and jacket and strode to the door. There, he turned and faced Emma again. “I’ll be gone to London for a while. We’ll talk when I return.”

  “There is no need.”

  “Nevertheless, we shall,” he said. With his hand on the door handle, he added, “I meant what I said, Emma.” He was keenly aware of the dejected exasperation saturating his tone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Three days later, rains having kept Emma and Bethany rather trapped inside the cottage, she was very surprised by a knock at the front door. She stared, rather dumbstruck, at the door, the first time she felt vulnerable, living alone. There was no window close enough to the door to see who might be standing upon the stoop so then she hadn’t any choice but to open the door, if she wished to know who came.

  Pulling the door open showed only a young man, his shirt and breeches travel worn, carrying a large leather satchel, strapped over one shoulder and leaning against the opposite hip. He lifted his hand and presented an envelope to her. “From the post, ma’am.”

  “A letter?” She said, further compelled to wonder, “For me?”

  “If you’re her,” the boy said, pointing to the script on the envelope.

  Indeed, her name, Miss Emma Ainsley, was scrawled across the paper, along with her direction.

  “I am.” She smiled at him, bemused by this circumstance. She had never received a letter, or anything at all, from the post.

  The lad tipped his cap to Emma and left, climbing up onto the nag waiting just outside her little gate.

  Closing the door, Emma considered the bold script, and the very happy occurrence of receiving a letter. It dawned on her suddenly that this must be from the Smythes; perhaps they were ready ahead of schedule. She stepped into the front parlor while she carefully slid her finger between the fold of the envelope, loosening the wax seal. Sitting upon a wooden armed side chair, whose upholstered seat had frankly seen better days, she pulled several folded pages from within, and flipped these open.

  The same bold script of the envelope was found inside, the strokes sure and neat.

  Miss Ainsley,

  I’m not quite sure how familiar you are with the politics and procedures of parliament, but I thought it prudent to remind you that I will remain in London for the time being as the session is heating up, as it normally does before it closes for the year. Sadly, our day does not begin in chambers until late afternoon, and often we find ourselves still upon the benches into the wee hours of the morning. I tell you this, and ask that you make my excuses to Bethany, as I had promised that we would ride regularly, and that will not, cannot, be the case until parliament closes for the season.

  Lest you think I am enjoying myself, I will correct you with the news that yesterday I listened to one man speak for more than an hour and a half. He did not speak specifically to the bill to be brought before the House, but only that we should be having discussion about bringing the bill before the House. Thus is my status here, annoyed, impatient, and wanting to be away from London.

  You might reply to this correspondence with news from Hertfordshire, if you have any, and of the Daisies, to keep me entertained and somehow connected to you and true reality.

  Lindsey

  Her bottom lip had fallen, remained lagging while she read the entire missive. And then read it again. The Earl of Lindsey had written her a letter.

  Was this an olive branch? Did she want one?

  She’d managed, over the past several days, to put the entire sordid encounter into perspective. She’d made a huge mistake, one she’d not like to repeat. He had felt guilty, for his role in losing her the position at the modiste’s and perhaps even for having taken her virginity, and hence, his unbelievable declaration of love.

  She gave no quarter to how that bit of news had been presented, how he seemed equally as shocked as she by the words, the way his voice had hesitated as she was positive the earl’s never had before. I meant what I said, Emma.

  In hindsight, she was embarrassed by her behavior, many aspects of it. She shouldn’t have done what she had with him. She certainly should not have liked it as much as she had, nor given it the amount of attention and recollection as she had over the last few days. She shouldn’t have overreacted, screaming at him as if she were naught but some bat from hell. She could not properly justify either behavior.

  Likely, she was half in love with him, but she thought she should not be. Truthfully, aside from a simmering gaze that weakened her knees and his infinite affection for Bethany, what part of him was worthy of her love? His clever political mind and his drugging kiss? The fact that he was certainly the most handsome man she’d ever known? That little boy in him who wanted only to tend bees all his days? The man who ate her not-even-close-to-perfect stew and pretended he hadn’t almost choked, just to spare her feelings?

  Rubbish, all of it. Above and beyond all that, he was overbearing and dictatorial and apparently intent only on causing her grief.

  I meant what I s
aid, Emma.

  Emma tightened her lip and took his letter upstairs. She tucked it into the small desk in her chambers, after she read it through one more time, running her fingers over the dried black ink of his precise script.

  The rains stopped, and the post boy found Emma and Bethany just returning from Perry Green, their conveyance courtesy of the always amiable Mr. MacKenzie. With a slight blush to her features, Emma accepted the letter, already familiar with the bold scrawl across the front. She bid a good day to Callum, and then wasn’t quite sure how she managed to wait to open the envelope until Bethany was settled for her nap, but she did.

  Miss Ainsley,

  I begin to believe your George Fiske might have had the right of it: putting thoughts to pen is both cathartic and engaging. Yet I am no George Fiske, of the fanciful words and earnest declarations, so I shall spare you an attempt to charm you with any such thing.

  I enjoyed dinner yesterday, before our session, with Lady Marston, who inquires of your well-being. Curiously, after I’d explained your connection to Hadlee, she became rather animated, or as captivated by any subject as Lady Marston might be. Even more peculiar, her attention seemed to hover and waver between excitement and trepidation as I answered whatever queries I could in regard to your new—and, according to my godmother, her old—friend.

  I had wanted to mention to you, as we’d discussed about your lad, Langdon, that he should be presented to Mr. Talley, the stablemaster at Benedict House, when the time comes. I know very little of the boy, but Talley might serve nicely as a fine mentor. I daresay he’ll learn more and better in only weeks what he might have accumulated over the years.

  Signing off now, heading back to the Palace.

  Lindsey

  Two days after that, the post boy gave her what she deemed an annoyed scrunching up of his youthful face, until Emma passed him two farthings, to which he lost his frown and tipped his cap to her.

  Miss Ainsley,

  Thurman has mentioned that you’ve asked for the carriage for Friday, this week. This pleases me, as it never sat easily with me that you and Bethany were on your own there at the Daisies.

  Still taunting me with the promise of his support, Lord Kingsley insisted I take dinner with him, even as our session ended well after midnight. Dinner was reserved and informal, and while I continue to express my gratitude for your assistance in warding off that aforementioned and addressed Hindrance, your absence has now rekindled her enthusiasm, and the quiet planned interlude of Lord Kingsley and myself was interrupted not once, not twice, but three times by nonsense and the woman who brought it. Thus, prepare yourself, Miss Ainsley. I may soon and again request your company.

  Scattered thoughts here, but do you think Bethany might like to come to London? I imagined taking her to Bartholomew Fair, which comes ‘round at the beginning of September. Kindly advise of your thoughts on this.

  Lindsey

  Biting her lip, Emma re-read this latest letter three times. Several things came to mind as a result. First, she had to acknowledge that the Earl of Lindsey, whatever the status of their so often antagonistic relationship, was likely to be in her life for a very long time, if only vicariously through his affection for her daughter. Next, she pushed aside the not entirely unpleasant thrill that rattled her belly at his supposing he might send for her to assist him once again in his efforts to frustrate the Hindrance. Lastly, Emma’s shoulders fell, realizing that as he had asked a particular question, she felt rather bound to reply to his letter. Perhaps there was no harm in it; it was only words on paper. She might more easily ignore his missives if they were indeed written in the same vein as had been George Fiske’s, with efforts to woo her and beguile her with his words. But he did not; these were safe letters, ones to which she could foresee no harm in replying, although her response was forestalled by several days with the preparations for, and the coming of, her family.

  By the time she did sit down to write the earl, Emma was quite intrigued by the burgeoning idea which had come to her, that she might dictate where next their relationship ventured. She could write to him as friends, not with the seething animosity that accompanied so many of their meetings and, obviously, not with any mention or hint of what she was now referring to as The Second, But Far Greater Most Inglorious Blunder. She would speak to him in the letters as if she wrote only to Mrs. Smythe or any dear friend that she might have. It would set the tone for how they might go on, Emma unable to imagine that she could successfully cleave him from her life completely. She thought that an impossibility, because of his grand affection for Bethany and for the very fact that he now possessed the entire estate from which came her present income.

  Dear Lord Lindsey,

  Be forewarned—and politely at the very beginning of this missive—that I’ve never written a letter to anyone before in my life. Isn’t that amazing?

  As it is, I will operate completely on instinct, though additionally I have it on good authority (courtesy of Mrs. Smythe) that casual correspondence is meant primarily as a way to keep persons informed, in their absence. As you’ve done just that, so I shall endeavor to return the favor.

  First, to answer your question, I cannot imagine a child, or any person, who might not enjoy a fair. Though, truth be told, I’m not entirely sure all that a fair might encompass. However, I would trust Bethany in your care for such an outing.

  As you have been apprised, the Smythes and Langdon have indeed come to the Daisies. We are all quite over the moon to be reunited finally. They are, as I feared, quite dismayed to learn they haven’t really any profession within my household, save to keep me company and assist with the small upkeep. But as the weather is fine, and the summer fully upon us, we’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time out of doors. Langdon has already been several times up to Benedict House. He returned once, very happily, with a new nag and cart for our use, courtesy of your Mr. Talley. Assuming the instruction for this came from you, I thank you for the loan of the vehicle. And please be advised that Langdon was quite sincere in his vow to take very good care of both animal and cart to please the stablemaster.

  Yesterday, the Smythes and I and Bethany, too, drove into Perry Green. I introduced the Smythes to the butcher and Mrs. Carriere, the modiste, and then to Mr. Crandall at the mercantile.

  Bethany has picked up a new word this week. I wish she hadn’t. It’s horrible. That’s the word, horrible. She has employed this as her response to any and all questions or comments, which makes even the very mundane, ‘Did you have fun reading your book with Mama Smythe?’ an exercise in futility. It really is horrible. Perhaps when you return, you might teach her a new word, as our efforts thus far have proven unsuccessful.

  Cordially,

  Emma Ainsley

  Several days later, with news to impart, Emma did not await a reply, but sent off another letter to the earl.

  Dear Lord Lindsey,

  Writing quickly (and pardon my poor penmanship, as I’ve so little occasion to use it over the years) to get this sealed before we head into town, where I can drop it off at the post, without waiting for the boy. Saves me tipping him as well, which is awkward for me, as I was forever on the other end of gratuities.

  Oh, but I must tell you! As agreed, while we stayed in London, George Fiske visited me yesterday. Lord Hadlee and I had a charming tea in the drawing room. Officially, he is my first guest to the Daisies, and I was quite excited to have tried out my tiny learned hostess skills, but I fear they may have been wasted on the poor man. He was interested and consumed only by those letters, for which I had run up to Benedict House and collected from Mrs. Conklin, and which I have dutifully returned to the sad man. I think he is lonely and considers me a connection to something he lost and mourns still. True, the connection is nebulous, but I feel he understood how deeply those letters had affected me and stayed with me. He promises to visit again in the next month or two.

  In other news, Mr. Smythe is appreciative of your efforts within the orchard and h
as found a new love, I dare say. He spends countless hours there, in that wicker chair when not pruning and growing and watering. And not two days ago, he was gone for three hours to Perry Green by himself and returned, flushed of face, and still excited for the lengthy conversation he’d had with the grocer, who apparently manages his own orchard rather successfully, so that Mr. Smythe promises more apples and pears than we’ll know what to do with. (I see pies and cakes and tarts in my future.)

  Honestly, this letter writing is fairly easy. I find the words just spill out on the paper. (Do you care for this stationery? Mrs. Smythe and I found it in town, while Mr. Smythe wondered what was wrong with plain white vellum.)

  Cordially,

  Emma Ainsley

  Postscript. The scribbling on the next page is from Bethany, who is just now learning what letters are all about. I’m sure you can imagine that her fingers were stained with more ink than the page. And that, my lord, is all that I am bound to pen just now, as I’m hoping to make the stationery last as long as you are in London.

  Emma received another letter from the earl not two days later. Privately, she wrestled with the thrill that accompanied the arrival of his correspondence, though she was sure it had more to do with the letter itself and attached no particular significance to the sender. However, knowing he was likely busy in parliament for as many as ten or twelve hours a day, she felt a certain fluttering in her belly that he’d taken even just a few moments to send a missive her way. Today her delight was only heightened by the small parcel that accompanied the letter, delivered by a different post boy than Emma was accustomed to, that she wondered if the earl had employed a private messenger. This raised Emma’s brow, as the messenger must have cost more than the extravagant pennies she laid out to send each letter.