Seven

Emmie took to avoiding the earl, and in fairness to her, he understood exactly why. No young lady appreciated a man who tore a strip off his neighbors when first they ventured to call on him. He’d behaved badly, and no matter Lady Tosten had deserved every word of his tirade, he’d still bungled the encounter.

Lady Tosten, however, was not avoiding him. Three days later she was back, Elizabeth in tow and no Davenports in sight. On that occasion, Douglas, perhaps thinking the earl required closer supervision, bestirred himself to join the group. The unfortunate result was that Lady Tosten could maneuver so the earl was forced into Elizabeth’s company as they strolled the cutting gardens.

For St. Just, it was a form of torture.

“You are doing much to bring Rosecroft back to its former beauty, my lord.” Elizabeth peeked over at him from under her bonnet. “Tell me, do you believe you might revive the commercial aspect of the property, as well?”

“I know little about raising and selling flowers,” he dodged, though he’d been considering just this project. “The work you see out here is the result of my houseguest’s enthusiasm for gardening, as well as Winnie’s efforts with Miss Farnum.”

“So you, yourself, do not garden.” Miss Tosten nodded, approving no doubt, as her prospective husband must not be in trade. “But I understand you are fond of horses?”

Fond of them? He’d supported himself very well buying, selling, and training them, thank you very much. He owed his life to horses many times over, and his passion for them eclipsed mere genteel fondness.

“I am,” he replied, vowing he’d not disgrace himself with unruly speech again.

“As am I.” She nodded again, gaining momentum. “They are so pretty and useful.”

“That they are,” he allowed, thinking of the emaciated, scarred, weary animals he’d seen littering countless battlefields. “But what are your other interests, Miss Tosten?” He most assuredly did not add “or may I call you Elizabeth?” because he could already see her beginning to plot in earnest: The earl is interested in my accomplishments, Mama!

“I play the pianoforte a little, of course.” She wrapped a second hand around his arm as they walked along. “I sing and have modest talent with watercolors. I have not yet been to Paris, but Mama says we shall go next spring before the Season for some fittings and to polish my French.”

“But what of the seasons other than spring, Miss Tosten? How do you fill the hours then?”

“One corresponds, of course.” She blinked and frowned as if in thought. “And we pay calls, and Mama is very active in local charities. I strive to learn from her example. Just this week, she motivated the Ladies Charitable Guild to investigate the state of widows and orphans here in the parish. Mama is a most charitable lady, and I hope to follow in her footsteps.”

“I wish you every success,” the earl said, his sarcasm apparently lost on her. Oh, Mama—he mentally winced—the earl was most enthusiastic about the Orphan’s Fund. How clever of you!

Miss Tosten would never come to him with a new recipe that needed perfecting. She would never tear across the gardens barefoot in pursuit of a laughing child. She would never make soft, yearning sounds when he kissed her.

“Rosecroft.” Douglas sauntered up behind them, Lady Tosten hanging on his arm. “I was just explaining to your guest we will not be able to attend their assembly, as I am going south in the next week or so, and you might well accompany me.”

“Just so.” The earl could have kissed Douglas on both cheeks. “My niece, Rose, is Lord Amery’s stepdaughter, and I have yet to make her acquaintance. I might have time to jaunt south and still be back here before harvest.”

“Oh, never say it.” Lady Tosten waved a hand. “Your niece has her entire life to make your acquaintance, but we have only the one summer assembly, your lordship. You must both stay.”

“In our family,” the earl said, gently disengaging Miss Tosten’s arm from his, “we do not take one another for granted. As Rose is only recently out of mourning for her own father, she needs her uncles, and I’m thinking she might enjoy making Winnie’s acquaintance, as they are already corresponding.”

He watched as Lady Tosten registered that Winnie would be introduced to the Duke and Duchess of Moreland and all their progeny. “For the present, ladies, I must beg you to excuse us. There was a deal of correspondence delivered with the morning post, and it does not answer itself.”

Lady Tosten almost hid it, but he saw her disappointment that again, no luncheon invitation would be forthcoming.

He’d no sooner dispensed with the Tostens, though, when Hadrian Bothwell presented himself, having arrived again on foot. Douglas excused himself, muttering something about drains and fall calves, so the earl rang for refreshments and wondered how anybody got anything done when the damned knocker was up.

***

“So will you really come south with me?” Douglas asked the earl over dinner. “Or was that merely an evasive tactic?”

Emmie glanced up at him sharply, as did Winnie.

“I don’t know.” The earl frowned at his soup. “It’s tempting, but I don’t want to ask one of my geldings for that effort again so soon… and I would miss my Winnie.” Winnie’s face creased into a bashful smile, but she said nothing. “Though I would be gone only for a few weeks, I suppose. Could you spare me, Win?”

“Would you come back?”

“I would come back. I give you my word I’d come back, and before winter, too.”

“You’d go to see Rose?” Winnie asked, brow knit. “I suppose that would be all right. She is your niece.”

“And you are my Winnie,” the earl reminded her, but beside Winnie, Emmie was blinking hard at her soup.

“Emmie?” The earl turned his gaze on her. “Will it suit for me to make a short trip south?”

“Your roof and your stone walls are well under way,” she said, “and harvest is still some weeks off. I’m sure Rosecroft could manage without you for a few weeks.”

But what about you, the earl wanted to ask. He honestly could not tell if she was angry with him for contemplating this journey, or relieved or indifferent or… what?

“I will think about it,” the earl said, his eyes on Emmie. She’d been keeping her distance from him all week, and he’d been content to let her. They were together at meals, and he frequently crossed paths with Winnie during the day, and hence, with her cousin. What he had not sought—had not felt welcome to seek—was privacy with Emmie.

***

After the earl’s disconcerting announcement at dinner, Emmie successfully eluded him for the rest of the evening. She should have known her efforts were doomed. He breached all protocol that evening and knocked on her bedroom door once the house was quiet.

“My lord?” She opened the door halfway but did not invite him in.

“I’d like a word with you, if you’ve the time?”

“In the library?”

“This won’t take long,” he said, holding his ground. She took the hint and stepped back, closing the door behind him. When he turned to face her, Emmie saw his green eyes go wide at the sight of her hair loose around her shoulders. Down and unbound. Not braided, bunned, or otherwise confined.

“You were brushing your hair,” he guessed. “Which means you were almost ready for bed. I apologize for intruding.” He wandered to her vanity and picked up a brush inlaid with ivory.

“It was a gift from the old earl,” she said, watching him fingering her belongings. He ran his thumbnail down the teeth of her comb and picked up a blue ribbon coiled in a tray of hairpins.

“I have been considering how best to apologize to you,” he said, winding the ribbon around his finger, “but I’m not sure exactly what label to put on my transgression.”

Call it a kiss, Emmie silently rejoined.

“And was an apology the purpose of this conversation?” she asked, not knowing where in the room to put herself. She wasn’t about to sit on the bed, and not on the fainting couch by the cold hearth either. She also didn’t want to sit at her vanity, not with him standing there, acquainting his big, tanned hands with her belongings.

“I’m not just here to apologize.” He smiled a slow, lazy smile at her. Not one of his company smiles, not a smile he’d give to Winnie or Lord Amery either. “Come sit, Emmie.” He patted the low back of the chair at her vanity. “You are uneasy, wondering when I’ll say something uncouth or alienate another neighbor. I regret that.” He patted the back of the chair again, and on dragging feet, Emmie crossed the room.

She seated herself and expected the earl to take the end of the fainting couch or to slouch against the mantel. He caught her completely off guard by standing behind her and drawing her hair over her shoulders.

“I miss doing this for my sisters,” he said, running the brush down the length of her hair, “and even for Her Grace when I was very young.”

“She raised you?” Emmie asked, knowing she should grab the brush from him.

“From the age of five on. You have utterly glorious hair. Winnie will be the envy of her peers if she ends up with hair like this.” He drew a fat coil up to his nose and inhaled, then let it drop and resumed his brushing.

“You should not be doing this,” Emmie said, but even that weak admonition was an effort. “I should not be letting you do this.”

“I interrupted you. It’s only fair I should perform the task I disturbed. Besides, I wanted to talk to you about this trip Douglas has proposed.”

Emmie rolled her eyes. “The one he proposed at the dinner table. In front of Winnie. What was he thinking?”

“He was thinking”—the earl kept up a slow, steady sweep of the brush—“to alert you to the possibility and to give you a chance to comment on it. But you did not.”

“I said something.” Emmie frowned, trying to recall what. Her common sense told her she needed breathing room—right this moment she needed breathing room, and in the days and weeks to come. She’d been trying to keep her distance from him, to avoid the near occasion of sin, but she couldn’t keep him from her thoughts if he was always underfoot.

“You said nothing that told me what you think of the idea,” he remonstrated. “One braid or two?”

“One. You should do as you please,” she said, trying to rouse her brain to focus on the conversation.

“I hadn’t planned on traveling south again until spring, perhaps when Gayle and Anna’s child has arrived.” He fell silent when the brush found a knot in the heavy abundance of her hair.

“So why go now?” Emmie asked when she ought to be telling him to go and stay away until spring.

“I’m not sure.” He eased the brush through the knot. “I miss my family, for one thing. I didn’t think I would. I spent much of the spring in Westhaven’s household, and I saw a fair amount of Her Grace and my father then, too.”

“But not your sisters, and you have yet to meet Rose, and your father is recovering from a heart seizure.”

“He is. Easily, if my brothers’ missives can be trusted. But what of Winnie? She is my family now, too, and I won’t go if you think it would upset her too much. She’s had a great deal of upheaval in her life, and I would not add to it.”

“Winnie has given you her blessing.” Emmie steeled herself against a lassitude that was making it difficult to keep her eyes open. “And Winnie is not a creature who ignores her own preferences. Just for God’s sake do not fail to return, or I won’t answer for the consequences.”

“Will you miss me, Emmie Farnum?” He paused in his brushing, and Emmie felt his hands settle on her shoulders. She wanted to bolt to her feet and wrap her arms around him, to tell him not to go. She wanted to bolt to her feet and order him from her room, to tell him to go and not come back.

She sat in her chair, stock still, and watched in the mirror as he hunkered behind her chair and pushed her hair to the side, exposing the side of her neck.

“I told myself,” he murmured, his thumb caressing the spot just below her ear, “I could behave if I had to track you to your lair tonight. I told myself that lie, and I believed it.”

He leaned in slowly and pressed his open mouth to the juncture of her shoulder and her neck. His breath fanned over her skin, and Emmie had to close her eyes against the sight of him in her mirror. He rose, but only to let his hands drift down her arms and back up.

“You aren’t stopping me, Emmie,” he whispered.

“I will,” she said, hoping it was true. But his long fingers were busy with the ties at her throat, and she felt her wrapper fall open as he bit her earlobe. Soon, she thought, soon I will stop him, but not just…

A large, warm hand settled gently over one breast, and Emmie could not prevent a little whimper of pleasure. Through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, she could feel the heat of him. His thumb eased across her nipple, coaxing it to firmness, and Emmie felt what little resolve she could claim evaporating.

“Rosecroft…” she murmured.

“Devlin, or St. Just, or my love, but not the bloody damned title.” He shifted so he was kneeling before her and threaded his hand through her hair at her nape.

Another kiss, Emmie thought, her heart kicking into a gallop. Just this once more, and then I’ll be good.

He made it a feast, that one kiss, by grazing his nose all over her jaw, her cheeks, her brow. Everywhere, he inhaled her scent and teased her with his own. She tried to capture his mouth, but he evaded such headlong behavior. His hand remained on her breast, cupping, teasing, and learning the shape and heft of her.

“St. Just,” Emmie panted, “Devlin, please just kiss me.”

He growled, a sound that held amusement and satisfaction, but he didn’t capitulate to her demands until he’d undone the ties to her nightgown. Not until he fused his mouth to hers did he ease the material apart, though, and then he let his hand drop to her lap, leaving Emmie to focus on the way he plundered her mouth, stole her wits, and sent her best intentions and common sense begging down the lane.

***

Emmie opened for him immediately, her hands stealing around his shoulders, and those sexy little sounds starting up as soon as he touched his tongue to hers.

She wants it, he thought as his own lust spiked upward. She wants me.

And God knew he wanted her. His groin was throbbing with want, screaming with it, and demanding he make up for years of neglect in the next instant. Emmie’s hands were adding to the din, trailing up and down his arms then working at the buttons of his waistcoat. When she had those undone, she began to pull the hem of his shirt from his waistband.

“Emmie.” He tried to catch her hands. “Emmie, love. Slow down.” To get her attention, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead on her collarbone. “Easy now. Just… easy.” She was breathing as hard as he was, gulping air, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

He lifted his head and peered around the room, then scooped her up and rose in one motion. “Bed,” he whispered to her, kissing her nose before he lowered her onto the mattress. While Emmie blinked in consternation, he pulled off his shirt and waistcoat, then sat on the bed to tug off his boots.

“You stay right there,” he muttered before rising and locking the door.

“I can’t do this,” she blurted out, rising up on her elbows. “I cannot… lie with you.” He stopped, midstride, and frowned at her.

“Is it your courses? Because that needn’t…”

Emmie shook her head. “No, it isn’t… that.” She blushed and turned her face away.

“I will not get a bastard on you, Emmie.” He took the few steps needed to bring him to the bed and sat at her hip, gazing down at her. “You should know that at least.”

“Are you God,” Emmie said in quiet misery, “to prevent conception at will?”

Her sternum was open to his view, but the froth of her night clothes hid her breasts. She was breathing hard, he could see, with arousal, but also…

“Emmie.” He reached out and brushed a lock of her hair back. “Let me pleasure you. You need it, I need it, and no one will be the wiser. I can ease your ache, and you can ease mine. It needn’t be more complicated than that.”

He trailed the back of his hand against the silky skin of her chest, moving her garments aside, baring a full breast to the candlelight. She closed her eyes, which he took for capitulation of a sort, so he leaned down and settled his mouth over her exposed nipple. He drew gently while his hand smoothed down over her ribs, over her belly, then back up.

Emmie’s hands cradled the back of his head then went still, giving him the sense she was absorbing these shocking new pleasures. He knew he’d crossed the line from persuasion to seduction, for she’d said she would not lie with him. Could not. And he could not promise her if they joined, no child would result.

So he’d settle for half measures but make them such unforgettable half measures for her that she’d have no recriminations. He eased himself full-length onto the bed beside her and let his weight rest against her hip. Even that simple contact brought him some relief as Emmie arched into him, her refusals and remonstrations forgotten.

He pushed up and settled more of his weight against her. Her eyes flew open, and he met her panicked gaze, trailing a hand over her neck and sternum.

“I will not join with you tonight,” he said, holding her gaze, “but neither will I let either one of us go unsatisfied.”

Her eyes clouded with confusion even as he lowered his head to kiss her. Slowly, tentatively, he felt Emmie’s hands slide over his naked shoulders to join at his nape.

“That’s it,” he murmured, “we’ll take it easy.” His voice was a low rumble. He intended to reassure more than seduce and had no clue if he’d succeeded. He wanted his kiss, his voice, and his hand as it slowly explored her exposed breasts all to convey that there were eternities available for this pleasuring he offered her.

“Emmie,” he murmured against her mouth, “spread your legs for me, love.”

She startled when his hand settled on her mons. His fingers moved in lazy little circles across her pubic bone then back again, even while his tongue circled around hers. Then he shifted tactics, to comb his fingers through her curls, a slow caress intended to soothe as it aroused.

“Open,” he reminded her, smiling against her mouth. “Please.”

Tentatively, she let her knees ease apart two inches, but it was enough for his purposes. “That’s my lady.” He smiled again and began to move his hips, rocking his erection against her thigh. His hand moved in the same rhythm, but, oh the sweet places he touched…

Cautiously, he dipped a finger down the damp length of her sex. She flexed her hips to rub herself against his hand, then repeated the movement when he held his hand against her more firmly.

“Slowly,” he cautioned, shifting his weight to give his hand greater range of motion.

“Not slowly,” Emmie muttered in response. “Touch me, St. Just. You have to touch me.”

She comprehended that much, he saw, but exactly how experienced she had was hard to tell. She was experienced enough, he decided, finding the bud of her pleasure and circling on it gently.

“St. Just…” Her fingers closed around his wrist, not restraining him, just experiencing the movement of his hand from that perspective, as well. “What are you…? Ah, God…” She lay open to him on her back, her knees now spread as his touch consumed all of her concentration. He increased the tempo of his caresses and felt her arousal kick up, as well. Her hips were rocking steadily, her breathing accelerating, and her grip on his wrist had grown tight.

“Easy.” He leaned down and swiped his tongue across her nipple. “Let it come to you.”

“I can’t…” Emmie opened her eyes and met his gaze for one fleeting, bewildered moment. He knew then that at least this part of sex—her pleasure—was new for her. He lowered his head again and took her nipple in his mouth, drawing on it in a slow, relentless rhythm.

“St. Just…” She began to buck against his hand. “Devlin? Devlin…!”

He sank two fingers shallowly into her sheath, just enough that he could delight in the spasms clamping down in a hard, ecstatic rhythm. With his thumb, he brought a firmer pressure to bear on the apex of her sex, riding out the bucking, rolling undulations of her hips. His mouth drew on her nipple, easing the pressure only when he felt her pleasure begin to ebb.

“My lands,” Emmie panted softly. “Oh, my lands, my lands…”

He smiled down at her and brushed her hair back with one hand.

“A triple ‘my lands,’” he said, smiling. “I am content.”

He wasn’t, of course. He was hard as a pikestaff and throbbing for the very same pleasure he’d just given her, but seeing the wonder in Emmie’s eyes, he was content. He could wait the few minutes it would take her to gather her wits.

She rolled up and wrapped her arms around him in a sudden, fierce hug.

“My lands,” she said again before easing down to her back.

“You are so beautiful, Emmie Farnum.” He brushed her hair back a second time. “So dazzlingly, glowingly beautiful in your passion. You are beautiful in your kitchen, too.” He kissed her nose and cuddled her to him. Emmie surprised him by hooking her leg over his hips and settling against him with a sigh. Experimentally, he flexed his hips against her, but she only cuddled in more tightly.

His breeches would have to go.

“Give me a minute, love.” He rolled away and shucked breeches and smalls in one movement, then rolled back to her. “How shall we go about this?”

She blinked at him, as if trying to decipher a rapid spate of some foreign language.

“Why don’t I just take matters in hand, so to speak,” he suggested, his hand dropping to caress the length of his erection, “while you assist?” He reached for her hand and brought it to his erection, then wrapped his own grip outside of hers. “Hold me, Emmie,” he urged, “hold me this tight.” He firmed his grip to show her what he meant and then turned his head to search for her lips.

“Hold me and kiss me,” he said, his mouth open and greedy over hers.

***

Barbarian, Emmie thought in the single word impressions her brain was passing off as thoughts. It tumbled through her mind with kiss, more, Devlin, please, hot, shouldn’t, and yes.

His hips were undulating in a slow, powerful rhythm, his hand was fisted tightly around hers on his cock; when he groaned deeply, pulled her hand away, and held her snugly to him, his cock trapped between their bodies. He continued to move against her for another half-dozen hard thrusts, then he went still.

“My lands,” he murmured into her ear. “My lands, my ever-loving most unbelievable lands.”

The dampness on her belly told her he’d found his pleasure; the humor in his voice told her he was happy with the experience in ways beyond the purely physical. He shifted onto his back, reached for her hand, and kissed her knuckles.

“You have no idea, Emmie Farnum.” He sighed and turned her hand over to kiss her wrist. “Not the first, least idea of the pleasure you’ve brought me.”

He was, as she’d surmised, a generous lover. Generous beyond all telling with the pleasure he bestowed, generous with his words, and generous with his affection. Any one of those would have utterly slain her best intentions. Put them together with a pair of green eyes, broad shoulders, and a good heart…

Oh, what had she done?

“Let me clean us up,” he said, drawing a finger down her nose. “Then I’m going to hold you.”

She nodded, feeling tears threaten. He moved to the washbasin and wrung out a cloth, using it on his genitals with more briskness than Emmie would have thought reasonable. His member, so impressively turgid just moments before, had subsided to less intimidating proportions, though she still found it fascinating.

He smiled his barbarian’s smile. “Keep looking at me like that, Emmie love, and I will be bothering you again in a trice.” She blushed, looking at his feet instead, but even those struck her as masculine and naked.

“Lie back,” he ordered, and Emmie complied while he wiped his seed from her hip and stomach. “Sex is so wonderfully messy,” he said as he tidied her up. “There’s no dignity to it. One wonders how the Archbishop of Canterbury goes about it, or say, the Bishop of London. You’re quiet.”

He wrapped his arms around Emmie and curled her up against his chest. “That is the most lovely experience of not lying with somebody I have ever had.” He kissed her nose and then her mouth, lingering over it.

“Talk to me, Emmie.” He rolled to his back and wrestled her to straddle him. “Tell me what’s going on here.” He tapped her temple.

“You didn’t hear the echo?” she said, feeling his genitals, cool, damp, and soft against her sex. “There is nothing in there at the moment. Nothing but a long, undignified sigh of contentment.”

“Your expression is not one of contentment, Emmie.” His thumb stroked across her forehead. “I would say, rather, you are having the proverbial second thoughts.” His hands on her shoulders urged her down so her chest was against his. “I am not inclined to allow it.”

“You are not at your most rational.” She sighed as his arms came around her. “I will not attempt a discussion of the many reasons why this is foolishness until at least one of us has some clothing on.”

“Wise of you.” His exuberant smile became a trifle hesitant. “Are you shy, Emmie, because a woman’s pleasure has never befallen you before?”

She tilted her head up to assess his eyes, but they were giving away nothing. How much could a man tell from the kind of encounter they’d had?

She laid her cheek against his chest to escape that searching green-eyed gaze. “Or I am shy because I am naked in bed with the man who employs me, a fellow I’ve known of for about a month, give or take.”

“But a decent fellow,” the earl replied, his hand stroking over her hair. “I would not hurt you, Emmie.”

“You are all that is considerate,” she said, with a terse lack of warmth—but she tightened her hold on him nonetheless.

“We are going to talk about this, Emmie.” His fingers found her nape and began to massage in slow, easy circles. “There are aspects of the situation you don’t understand.”

“I understand,” she said without shifting to meet his eyes. “We are not married, and you seek certain liberties I intended to share with only a husband, or the very near equivalent. You have brought me pleasure—unbelievable pleasure—but being with you like this is not wise, and we both know it.”

“You are letting the Lady Tostens of the world dictate to you,” he replied, frustration evident.

“The Lady Tostens of the world run the world, my lord, for those of us who must make our own way.” She kept her tone patient, not the least accusatory.

“You will not stoop to angering me with formal address, Emmie, not when I could be inside you in the next two minutes.” He arched up against her, demonstrating graphically that while they’d talked, her proximity had begun to stir his arousal again.

She rose up on her elbows to meet his eyes.

“You are not a rapist, and I am not a cock-tease nor a whore.” She moved to shift away from him, but he caught her by the arms and shook his head slightly. His hold was careful, and the look in his eyes was guarded.

“Please do not take away from me the good that happened here with you,” he said, matching her level tone. “I can understand your virtue is precious to you, and you are… upset, but I did not come here seeking this outcome either, Emmie.”

He held her gaze, a hint of pleading behind his sternness, and she nodded then subsided onto his chest. He had a point: She could have insisted on meeting him in the library, could have grabbed him by the ear and tossed him into the corridor.

In no way had he forced her; she couldn’t be angry at him.

“I am upset with myself,” she said, closing her eyes. She felt him nod then felt his hands sifting through her hair again. His touch was slow, gentle, and comforting, even as it reminded her she must not—once this encounter was behind them—permit him to touch her in that same manner ever again.

“We will talk.” He kissed the top of her hair. “For now, just let me hold you.”

A fast, triple tap on her door had them both freezing.

“Miss Emmie?” Winnie’s voice, followed by an attempt to lift the latch. “Oh, Miss Emmie, please wake up.”

“She’s wet the sheets or had a nightmare,” Emmie said, dropping her forehead to his sternum for just an instant then swinging off him. “I’ll take her back to her room.” She scrambled into her nightgown and wrapper. “You be gone when I get back. She might want to sleep in here on the trundle.”

“Emmie!” He hissed her name, grabbing her wrist as she paused by the bed to shove her feet into her slippers. She glanced over at him, and he bounded to his feet. In the next instant, his mouth was on hers, warm, plush, wicked, and sweet; then it was gone. He grabbed his clothing, blew out the candle, and slipped to the wall to the right of the door so when Emmie opened the door, he’d be hidden from view.

“I’m coming, Winnie,” Emmie called softly, sparing him one look intended to convey longing, exasperation, and regret. “Just give me a minute.”

Behind Emmie’s door, the earl heard her voice trailing off, reassuring, teasing, making light of the situation. He eyed her bed in the moonlight streaming in her window and gave serious thought to simply dozing off right there. He had the sense she wasn’t going to be reasonable about what had just happened, and the longer he let her stew and fret, the more unreasonable she’d be.

***

“Do you think Rosecroft will get me a pony when he visits his family?” Winnie asked. She was bright-eyed and bouncing around the attic with restless energy, having gone right back to sleep the previous night as soon as Emmie had cleaned her up and ensconced her on a day bed.

In contrast to Winnie, Emmie had slept badly. She was torn between recalling the abundant, decadent… wonderful pleasures she’d shared with St. Just, and castigating herself for the whole business. It was one thing to pine for the attentions of a man she knew she couldn’t have; it was yet another level of torment altogether to be shown just exactly what she’d be missing.

“Hello, my dears.” The earl appeared in the entrance to the low-ceilinged attic, having to duck his head to pass through the door. “Find any treasures?”

“We did.” Winnie skipped over to him and took his hand. “We found Aunt Anna’s doll and Aunt Morgan’s toy horse. There is a christening gown, too, and best of all, we found my papa’s toy soldiers.”

“No child raised on this sceptered isle should be without toy soldiers.”

“See?” Winnie pulled him along. “I’ve set up a great battle, with the fellows in blue being the Grand Armee, and the fellows in red and so forth being Wellington’s men. We even found some cannon and horsemen, but they’re the wrong colors.”

“You are having quite a war here.” The earl hunkered amid Winnie’s arrangement of men, cannon, and horses, and frowned. “So who’s going to win?”

“Old Wellie’s troops, of course,” Winnie chided him, completely missing the care with which the adults were not looking at each other. “See, these fellows over here can gallop round this way, and that will leave the cannon up on the chair…”

“You’re going to have trouble shooting your artillery straight down, but you are correct to use the rise for better advantage.”

“Oh.” Winnie sat back, surveying her troops. “Is that what real generals do?”

“At Waterloo”—the earl began shifting pieces around—“Wellington got word the French were approaching, so he arranged his lines along a ridge, like so. That put the French down here.” He moved more pieces. “And the reinforcements, back here. That would be Blucher, for the Dutch were up on the ridge under Wellington.”

“The reinforcements are too far away,” Winnie said. “Why can’t we move them up here?”

Quietly, Emmie watched as the earl moved cannon, horse, and infantry for both armies, explaining orders, strategies, and incidents to Winnie as he did. His face became oddly animated, excited but not happy… Just more and more tense.

“Well, why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?” Winnie asked, sending some blue horsemen charging up the side of a trunk.

“Language, Winnie,” Emmie chided quietly. Winnie fell silent as the earl rose, his expression now carefully blank.

“If you’ll excuse…” He turned and left without another word, his gait stiff but swift. Winnie frowned and gave Emmie a puzzled look.

“Was it because I said bloody French?” she asked, bewildered. “Everybody calls them that, or bloody Frogs. And Wellington won.”

“He did. I think the earl recalls it as more than a little game of toy soldiers, Winnie. Let’s leave him some privacy, shall we?”

“I’ll put the soldiers away,” Winnie said, puzzlement in her tone, “but then can we go bake something for dessert?”

***

Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it…?

The words circled in his head, present and past blending in one pounding drumbeat of fear, anxiety, and impending death. Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it? Up and down the lines, the men had wondered the same thing. The cannons had gone silent, and the waiting had stretched for hours.

Smells came back to him, of mud, summer mud thick from the previous night’s heavy rain then baked in the June heat. Damp woolen uniforms and the sweat of scared men, men who knew they’d already survived more battles than fate allowed.

Sounds beat against his sanity, the sound of restless horses, feet tramping in the mud, bridles and harness jingling with incongruous cheer across the still morning. The sound of men praying, muttering, swearing… Why won’t the bloody French just get on with it?

“Shall I saddle up Wulf, my lord?”

His mind snagged on the thought that Wulf hadn’t been at Waterloo. St. Just followed the voice with his gaze and found Stevens looking at him expectantly. Stevens, his groom… at Rosecroft… in Yorkshire.

“You all right, then?” Stevens asked, clearly uncomfortable.

St. Just shook his head and walked away, around to the back of the stables and then along the stone wall running down the hill from it. He took off his shirt, and with his bare hands, began to wrestle with the solid Yorkshire rocks, restoring them to order one backbreaking, sweating minute, by backbreaking, sweating minute.

From her bedroom, Emmie watched out the windows, seeing the earl wrestling with his stone wall. He’d be sunburned again, and he wasn’t wearing gloves either. She could send Lord Amery down with a pair, but something in the earl’s desperate focus suggested even that intrusion wouldn’t be welcome. On and on he toiled, bringing a neat, solid form to what had been cascading into chaos. Emmie must have stood there for an hour, and still she was left wondering: If she’d allowed him to stay in her bed last night, if she’d trusted him with her deepest failings and fears, would he be out in the broiling sun, blistering his hands and straining his back trying to rebuild a stupid stone wall?