Every Bit a Rogue

by Adrienne Basso

  “Over time it made the scars around my heart tough, nearly impenetrable. However, I have come to understand that refusing to confront it made it grow larger in my mind, in my life. I allowed it to control me, to overshadow any feelings that might have blossomed for other men.”

  Sebastian leaned forward, resting his wrists on his knees. “And now?”

  Emma released her breath with a small sigh. “I’ve broken through those scars. I can’t change the past, but I want the future to hold no fears.”

  “How can I help you?”

  Emma smiled ironically. “You just did. Seeing you was the final piece that I needed to complete the journey. There will always be a very small corner of my heart that belongs to you, Sebastian. But all the rest, the biggest part, the best part, I will entrust to my husband.”

  Sebastian’s expression grew fierce. “I hope that he deserves it.”

  Emma felt a smug clap of joy. “Jon is a remarkable man. I am indeed a fortunate woman to be his wife.”

  They stood. Sebastian brought her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. It was a sweet gesture that brought a comfortable warmth to her heart. However, it was a far cry from the breath-catching tingle she felt when Jon did the same.

  For the first time, her past and future blended together in sharp clarity. She had loved Sebastian as a girl. Jon, she loved as a woman.

  It was past time to tell him.

  Chapter Twenty

  A week later, Jon was glowering out the window and debating yet again if he should leave for London. Ever since he had learned that the earl—Sebastian—had been a part of Emma’s life for many years, the memory of that portrait had crawled beneath his skin and pricked at him.

  He had no definite proof that Emma had gone to London specifically to meet the man, but the coincidence made it too real, too disturbing a possibility. And Jon’s heart felt like it was tightening in his chest every time he thought of it.

  The remedy to retain his sanity, he believed, was to keep busy. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to occupy his mind with other matters, images of Emma invaded. Walking through the solarium the other day, he was certain he heard the soft tread of her feet on the stone floor.

  When he entered the drawing room he could picture her sitting on the settee, book in hand. He ventured to the third floor and roamed about her studio, gazing at her sketches, imagining her slender hands creating the images.

  Late at night he would toss and turn restlessly in his bed. Closing his eyes, Jon swore he could smell her perfume, feel the soft silk of her tender flesh, hear the sound of her voice.

  His longing for her was a constant pressure in his chest, made worse by his uncertainty of her affections. Jon scowled. The intolerability of the situation was taking a toll on him. He felt constantly on edge, the speculations as to why Emma had kept this a secret from him nearly driving him mad. There were moments when he wanted to hit something, to strike out physically in hopes that would ease the tension hammering through his body.

  Seven days. Emma had been gone for seven days and would not return for another seven. It felt like an eternity. Even her dog had been so forlorn that in an attempt to cheer him up, Jon had tossed the beast the mate to the boot Sir Galahad had destroyed the morning Emma had left for London.

  Chewing and ripping the footwear into small pieces had kept the animal contented and entertained for a few hours, but eventually the dog had also returned to his desolate state. He was now a fixture at Jon’s side, trailing after him day and night. The animal’s presence was an odd form of comfort, easing some of Jon’s loneliness, though the relief was always temporary and far too short.

  The sheet of plans laid out on his desk beckoned, and Jon forced himself to look at them. The modified designs Mr. Ogdan had sent of a steam engine seemed promising, yet Jon failed to summon any enthusiasm for them.

  He could go to the workshop, but in his current state of distraction he might cause a serious accident. ’Twould be safer for all if he tried working with paper and pencil rather than machinery.

  Sir Galahad lifted his large head and let out a single bark. The sound of carriage wheels brought Jon out of his chair and closer to the window. A flash of bright blue appeared as a woman stepped down from the coach.

  Emma!

  His first instinct was to rush to the foyer like Sir Galahad to greet her, but Jon held back. He would wait for her to come to him. The sound of her voice floated to his ears. She was speaking to the dog, her voice happy and amused. No doubt the animal was preening for her, basking in the attention and affection.

  Ears straining, Jon tried to determine where she was headed next. The door to his study swung open and he got his answer. Emma strode into the room, Sir Galahad attached to her side as though he were glued to her. They made a fetching pair, the pretty, slender woman and the large, hulking beast.

  Jon snapped his fingers and directed the dog to lie down near the fireplace. Sir Galahad gazed at Emma adoringly, his mouth curved up in a doggie grin, and after few gentle strokes on his head from his mistress, the animal obeyed the order.

  “Good afternoon, Jon.”

  “Emma.” He was relieved to see the warm look in her eyes, yet trepidation made him nod his head, stiffly, formally, politely. “Welcome home. You look lovely. Is that a new frock?”

  Emma blinked, looking down at her gown in confusion, as though she was amazed he would notice. “Gwen insisted that I patronize her modiste. I ordered several new gowns. I hope that you don’t mind.”

  “You look beautiful in everything you wear.” He felt a wave of possessiveness that nearly stole the breath from his lungs. She had become the center of his world. He couldn’t lose her. “Are your sister and her family well?”

  “They are all fine. It was wonderful to see them, but well, ’tis good to be home.”

  “Is it?” he asked softly. “I’m delighted that you returned far sooner than you said, but I truly don’t understand why you went to London in the first place.”

  Emma glanced about the room, looking everywhere but directly at him. Jon watched her fidget with her hands. She looked more nervous than he had ever seen her. His heart sank, but he had to stay calm, in control. Let her speak at her own pace, reveal her feelings to him as she needed.

  He had to be prepared to hear anything—including how the earl still held her heart. Even though the very thought brought a pain so sharp it nearly brought Jon to his knees.

  He gestured toward a chair facing his desk. He poured her a drink, brought it to her, then crouched at her feet.

  “There’s so much that I want to say to you, but I hardly know where to begin,” Emma said uneasily, setting her untouched drink aside.

  “Why don’t you start with the portrait you painted of the earl?” Jon took her hand in his, giving it a light squeeze. “I saw it when we were stranded at his estate.”

  She made a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “Why do you assume the portrait is one of my paintings?”

  “Your initials are on it—they are most distinct.”

  “Ah, caught out by my youthful vanity. That was the last portrait that I signed.” She smiled ironically. “I’ve often wondered what happened to it. Secretly, I hoped it had been destroyed. Or at the very least, left to rot in an attic somewhere.”

  “That would be a crime,” Jon replied. “’Tis an extraordinary piece.”

  “’Tis an embarrassment of emotion.” Emma’s voice grew quiet. “Sebastian’s grandmother, the Countess of Marchdale, commissioned it. She died before I finished it.”

  “How did it come to be in the earl’s possession?”

  Emma’s eyes darkened. “I presented it to him a few months after his grandmother’s death. He was very hungover that afternoon, drinking cup after cup of hot coffee, squinting his eyes and holding on to his aching head.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He was horrified,” she replied with a soft, exhausted sigh. “He had no inkling of how deeply I lo
ved him. He had always thought of me as a dear friend, a sister. Never a woman he would love romantically.”

  Jon winced, feeling Emma’s pain. Wishing there was some way he could take it away. “Why have you never spoken of him to me?”

  Emma responded with a sharp shake of her head. “I couldn’t. It was too painful to remember, let alone talk about.”

  “Did you see him when you were in London?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Jon’s stomach dropped and his limbs grew cold. “Do you still love him?”

  “No. I love another.” Her eyes shut briefly and then they opened, focusing on him intently. “I love you, Jon.”

  A sharp stab of joy pierced his heart and twisted his breath. He was struck by the resolve in her voice, humbled by the vulnerability he saw in her eyes. He understood the pain of lost love, the difficulty of learning to trust and hope again. For them to have this second chance made the moment even sweeter, more precious.

  Jon had to clear his throat before he spoke. “I love you, Emma. You mean the world to me. Words are inadequate to express the feelings that encompass my heart. When I suspected that you might be going to London to see the earl, it tore a hole through me. I can’t lose you, Emma.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about meeting Sebastian. It was something I had to do on my own. I had to put the past behind me once and for all.”

  “And have you?”

  Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his. Her kiss was possessive and demanding, miraculously imprinting her even more firmly in his heart. He returned the kiss soundly, taking and giving, hiding nothing from her. When he finally took his mouth from hers and looked up at her, he felt vibrantly alive.

  “Oh, Jon, I’m so happy. I’ve known for several weeks that my feelings for you were intensifying, yet I had to know that I had finally let go of my past. Then, and only then, could I fully commit myself to you, allow myself to love you as I wanted. To love you as you deserve.”

  She was looking at him in a way he’d never seen before, her eyes gleaming with joy and love, her mouth twisted in a trembling smile.

  “I know you were afraid of this feeling,” he whispered. “I was too. But, Emma, when I saw that painting, saw the power of your love, I knew that was what I wanted from you. And I would do anything and everything to get it.”

  She smiled. “I am yours, Jon. As you are mine. Please, don’t ever forget it.”

  * * *

  Emma looked at the gentleness in Jon’s eyes, and the walls around her heart that had started crumbling the moment she became his wife, completely broke apart.

  She felt whole, renewed. She had been adrift for years, fearful and alone. She didn’t feel alone with Jon. She felt connected on a level that went beyond herself. In his eyes she saw the reflection of her secret desires, the same wants and needs.

  To be accepted. To be loved. Fearing with all your being that it might not come to pass, yet finding the courage to reach for it. She was beyond lucky to be married to such an amazing man. She ran her hand slowly over his chest, over his heart.

  “I am honored and humbled by your love for me and intend to return it tenfold. I want to spend my days and nights with you, experience life with you, grow old with you. I want to hear your ideas for inventions and watch them come to life. I want to dance with you and ride with you, share your bed, give birth to and raise your children. And I vow to forever safeguard the heart you have bestowed upon me.”

  “You had better,” he replied gruffly, pulling her down and into his arms. “For I shall never give it to another.”

  * * *

  The next few days were idyllic. Emma and Jon spent nearly every waking hour together—in bed and out of it. They were equally matched in passion, and to her blushing delight, she found herself in an exhausted and satisfied state at the most shocking times of the day and night.

  Yet it wasn’t only bedsport that they so passionately shared. Jon discussed his work with her, encouraging her to offer her opinions and suggestions. Emma allowed him to view her sketches, which in addition to his amazing machine included a few drawings of her newest portrait subject—Sir Galahad.

  They even managed to entertain Dorothea and Carter, Squire Hornsby and Mrs. Hornsby, and the reverend and his wife for dinner one evening and make it a tolerable affair. Emma was determined to ease them into local society and erase any of the lingering rumors of suspicion surrounding Jon’s eccentricities as an inventor and his possible involvement in Baron Brayer’s murder.

  “Will you be joining me and Mr. Norris at the workshop this morning, Emma?”

  She placed her coffee cup on its matching saucer and gazed across the table at her husband. “The weather is so lovely this morning, I thought I’d bring my easel and paints outside on the patio.”

  Jon nodded approvingly. “I’ll be back in time to share luncheon with you.”

  She lifted her face to receive his kiss. He kissed her long and deep, until she was nearly squirming in her chair and wondering if there was time to slip back upstairs to the bedchamber.

  Jon’s carefree laugh let Emma know her thoughts were easily read. But instead of succumbing to her maidenly blushes, she slapped his shoulder playfully.

  “If you are very nice to me, Lord Kendall, we shall take an extra-long lunch today. Abovestairs.”

  His eyes flared with sensual heat, letting Emma know he approved of her plan. After a second, far more sedate kiss, Jon departed.

  Emma finished breakfast and rang for one of the footmen to help her with her art supplies. She felt energized with the sun casting a warm glow on the canvas, and had a productive morning, bringing her latest artistic vision to life.

  She reached a natural stopping point after several hours and decided it was time for a break. Setting her brushes down, Emma leaned back to assess her work with a critical eye, approving of the proportions and colors of her subject, yet not entirely pleased with the size perspective.

  Knowing it was best to leave the work instead of continuing to fuss with it, she stood and stretched. As there was enough time before lunch for a brisk walk, she headed through the gardens, and across the lawn.

  Deciding she would like some company, Emma gazed about, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sir Galahad. But the faithful dog was nowhere in sight and she realized he must have gone with Jon to the workshop.

  Though she knew the dog was devoted to her, he had apparently switched his strongest allegiance to Jon while she was away. The circumstance might have caused her a bit of distress, had she not so thoroughly approved of her pet’s choice.

  She reached the folly and decided to rest for a moment before starting back. Sitting on the stone bench inside the structure, Emma gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, admiring the intricate tile pattern.

  “Lady Kendall! How fortuitous to have encountered you on this fine day!”

  Emma’s heart sank as Hector Winthrope emerged from the edge of the woodlands and approached. Drat! An encounter with him was certain to ruin her good mood.

  “You are trespassing, Mr. Winthrope,” Emma stated firmly. “I recommend that you turn tail and run before my husband discovers that you are on his property.”

  Winthrope stopped short, his expression surprised and hurt. “You sound so hostile, my lady. I don’t understand why. Are we not friends?”

  “No, we are not friends,” she replied as she rose to her feet. “Jon told me all about the footmen and the lies you paid them to tell the night Lord Brayer was killed.”

  “I’m sure that your husband twisted the intent of my actions to showcase himself in a better light.” Hector entered the folly and stood in front of her.

  “He told me the truth. Make no mistake, Mr. Winthrope, you will have to answer for the crimes that you committed.”

  “Crimes? What crimes? Those servants did not give testimony under oath. They merely told the authorities what they believed they saw,” Hector replied smugly. “That is n
ot a crime.”

  Fearing that he might be right, Emma clenched her fists in frustration. “You are truly an odious man.”

  Hector’s face darkened with confusion. “You must know that I did all this for us, sweet Emma.”

  “Us?” Emma heard her voice rise in a squeak of disbelief.

  “There’s no need to be coy,” he said, placing his hands on her arms. “I can see how unhappy Kendall has made you. Everyone can.”

  What? “I am most happy married to Jon,” Emma insisted, twisting out of his grasp.

  “You mustn’t pretend with me, my dear, though I admire how brave you are in the face of such disappointment.” Hector gave her another smug, knowing glance. “Kendall’s been seeing my sister, you know. Alone. She met him in the woods while you were away in London. It won’t be long until they renew their romance and begin a torrid affair.”

  “That’s another lie,” Emma insisted, feeling a momentary pang of jealousy. Jon and Dianna? No! It wasn’t true and she wasn’t about to allow such falsehoods to shake her faith in the husband she loved.

  Still, the image of Jon with Dianna momentarily distracted Emma and Hector seized the advantage, leaning forward in an attempt to kiss her. She recoiled and managed to turn her head in time for his lips to brush sloppily against her cheek.

  Undeterred, Hector lunged at her again. “Come, my dear, that wasn’t a proper kiss,” he protested, his fingers biting into the tender flesh of her upper arm as he pulled her closer.

  “Release me at once!” Emma commanded, stunned and repulsed by his behavior.

  Winthrope ignored her cries and continued trying to haul her body closer to his. She bounced against the softness of his rounded belly, arching her back as she struggled to break his grasp.

  “Get your filthy hands off my wife, Winthrope! This instant!”

  Hector pulled back from her in surprise at Jon’s roar of rage and Emma cried out as the viscount’s fist struck Hector’s jaw with a loud crack.

  Hector flew backward, waving his arms frantically in an attempt to keep his balance. It failed. He fell on his rump on the hard marble floor of the folly. Grunting in anger, Winthrope scrambled to his feet and raised his fists.