Chapter Thirty-Six
The following day, Emma was just about to mount the steps into the Rossburys’ traveling coach when she sensed a familiar presence behind her. Before she could turn to greet him, James’s hand pressed beneath her elbow, propelling her up the coach steps.
His touch sent a jolt through her. What was he doing here? Was he coming with them? Struggling to collect her wits, she glanced at him through the window, but he just gave her an impenetrable stare, then stood back to admit another passenger into the coach.
“I see I’m just in time. Is there room for my box on the boot? It’s not very big.”
George!
How on earth had he managed to secure an invitation to join them? She was delighted. With him in their company, she wouldn’t feel nearly so alone. She smiled as he climbed into the conveyance, tipped his hat to the earl and countess, and seated himself between Lady Rossbury and a rosy-faced Jemima.
James followed last. After placing his hat on the shelf, he sat next to Emma. It was a blessing he hadn’t sat opposite, for then she’d have had to spend the whole journey avoiding his gaze. As it was, it was torture having him so physically close…but so cruelly distant in attitude.
As the coach lurched off on its journey to Stourhead, she was achingly aware of him—of the long legs encased in perfectly polished Hessians, of the strong, capable hands that rested against his muscled thighs. How she wanted to take his hand and hold it against her cheek! How she longed to press her lips to his knuckles and tell him she loved him, that Charles had never meant anything to her, and that he must trust her.
The torture became even more poignant when James started naming the landmarks of interest along the way. He angled toward her, leaned forward, and pointed out the window. The breeze wafted the smell of his spicy cologne over her, mingled with the musky scent of his soap and shaving cream. As he leaned across, pressing against her, a heat radiated from his body that set her cheeks afire.
Wretched man! Was he doing it on purpose, as punishment for telling him about Charles’s kiss?
Finally, when their surroundings resolved into rolling green countryside with nothing of note to describe, he settled back in his seat. The gap between them seemed to fill with chill air, and she sighed and fiddled with the tassels on her reticule.
Once or twice she risked a sideways glance, but his gaze was shuttered and his expression cool. Indeed, no one observing him now could ever imagine the wicked glint in his eye when he’d sucked her finger or the passionate tremor in his body when he’d kissed her.
He was everything an English aristocrat should be—remote, proud, unobtainable.
Suddenly, he took her hand and pressed something into it. She turned with a small gasp but received a warning frown. Pulse racing, she schooled her face to nonchalance and tucked the folded paper surreptitiously into her glove.
Hope sprang afresh. If he was sending her secret messages, he must still nurse some feelings for her.
Mustn’t he?
After giving her the note he became more relaxed, making the rest of the journey less of a trial. For him. But for her it had the opposite effect. The little piece of paper felt as if it were burning a hole through her flesh, and she feared she might be frazzled to a cinder long before she ever had a chance to read it.
Luckily, their coach made good speed, and soon they were rattling over the graveled driveway toward Stourhead, the estate of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, their host.
The building was relatively new and very impressive—even the normally imperturbable Earl and Countess of Rossbury appeared excited. As they drew up in front of the elegant facade, Emma experienced a rush of pleasure. This was her first house party in years, and she couldn’t wait to meet the fascinating Richard Colt Hoare—a man well-known for his scholarly abilities, his antiquarian interests, and his superb collection of books.
Even if there was nothing else to please her here, she could find solace in the library.
James descended from the carriage first. He reached up to hold Jemima around the waist, swinging her to the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. Emma’s heart leaped in anticipation, but his treatment of her person was much more respectful—and cold. He just gave her his hand to help her down the steps. Even through the barrier of her glove, she felt the heat of his touch like a bolt of electricity that made her nerves sizzle. She looked up to see if he was similarly affected, but his expression gave nothing away.
Soon they were all disembarked, and a bevy of servants swarmed around them, collecting parasols, hat boxes, bags, and mantles, and then they were ushered out of the harsh August sunlight into the shadowy atrium of Stourhead House.
They were greeted by their host, shown to their rooms, and treated to some light and very welcome refreshment—all of which activities seemed to take hours.
It wasn’t until late afternoon that Emma finally had a moment to herself to read James’s note.
The paper trembled in her fingers as she opened it, and her heart thundered fit to deafen her. But the note was depressingly brief.
Four o’clock, Rhododendron Walk.
That was all it said.
Whatever was the time? Her pendant watch proclaimed it to be half past three—a fact confirmed moments later by the confident clanging of a long-case clock on the landing. Only half an hour to go, and she had no idea where the rhododendron walk was.
There wasn’t a moment to lose.
Grabbing up a pencil, she jotted a quick note to Jemima to say she’d gone out to take the air. Then seizing up her parasol and bonnet, she chased out in search of a servant to direct her to the rhododendron walk.
Her heart was too full of expectation over her tryst with James to appreciate her surroundings. She barely noticed the beauteous grandeur of the gardens, the well-tended paths, or the range and variety of young trees. Nor did she stop to enjoy a view of the lake, which glinted teasingly at her through gaps in the foliage.
When she reached the rhododendron walk, she saw the unmistakable erect figure of the viscount swinging a walking cane abstractedly at a thistle. She slowed her step, lifted her parasol to shade her face, and stepped forward as unhurriedly as she could manage.
James ceased his fidgeting as soon as he saw her and strode in her direction, hailing her with the words, “Good afternoon, Miss d’Ibert. An admirable spot, is it not?”
As they came together, he smiled briefly but didn’t take her arm, just fell into step beside her so they could stroll among the glossy rhododendrons.
“I apologize for my skullduggery in bringing you out here,” he said evenly, “but I needed to talk to you alone as soon as possible.”
Her heart flipped over. Was he going to propose again? No, his manner was too cold. She was still at risk of losing him.
She steeled herself against whatever hurt he might knowingly—or otherwise—be about to inflict.
He said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of including your brother in our party. He has become essential to my cousin’s happiness, it seems. In fact, I would call him her personal physician, though unpaid. I only hope she won’t distract him too much from his studies.”
Why were they talking about George? Emma wanted to talk about them.
“Oh well. I’m certain he’ll return to Bristol after this house party full of vigor and ready to resume his career,” she managed.
“I did have an ulterior motive.”
Good. She’d hoped that might be the case.
He went on, “I thought you might appreciate his moral support when a certain event takes place. He’s a good listener and advisor, I collect.”
A certain event?
What event?
Her steps slowed, and she looked up at him in dread. Was he going to announce his engagement to…someone else?
No, that was a happy event. He hadn’t said “happy.” She was on tenterhooks, waiting for him to explain.
He halted and turned to face her.
She blinked up at him, waiting for the hammer blow to fall.
“I’ve seen to it that Charles Keane received an invitation,” he said. “No, don’t look so horrified. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but I wanted things settled between all of us. I cannot know if you and I are to be friends or enemies until you’ve spoken to Charles. You said you wished to, so I’ve made it possible. If it were left to him you might not see him for weeks. As you know, he’s very dilatory in his dealings with women. But I must say no more on that subject—I don’t wish to influence you against him, as he is still my friend. Arrange things between yourselves. I’ll interfere no further.”
Panic seized her. Charles? Here? He could ruin everything!
If he hadn’t done so already.
She wanted to cry, “Please, interfere! Rescue me from his vile machinations!” But James’s expression was so forbidding she dared not speak.
Repressing the sob that welled up in her chest, she said, “Well, you seem to have everything organized to your satisfaction. Whether Charles will dance to your tune is yet to be seen.”
“Oh, he’ll come. That’s a certainty. When I said invited I meant blackmailed. He’ll be here in time for dinner tonight. Now, I think we’ve spent enough time alone. I wouldn’t want to give the gossips any further grist for their mill. Adieu.”
With that, he tipped his hat to her and strode off up the rhododendron walk and into the gardens.
She stared after him, devastated. The man she yearned for so much it hurt, the man with whom she’d fallen achingly, unbearably in love, had walked away from her and left the field open to his rival.