Chapter Thirty-Seven
Emma chose her finest gown to wear for dinner that night. It was muslin, shot through with copper thread that glittered when she moved. This was accompanied by a satin wrap in rich burgundy that complemented the highlights in her chestnut hair, and a necklace of garnets borrowed from Countess Rossbury.
The dining room was easily as impressive as that at Birney House, flashing with cut glass chandeliers and candelabra, gilded pier glasses, and flickering tea lights to illuminate the table itself. Their host, Sir Richard Colt Hoare, was shy but a total gentleman, and the children of his extended family who came to say their goodnights before the company sat down were utterly charming.
Emma sat between George and an elderly former general who regaled her with tales of the Spanish Campaigns. James was placed next to Colt Hoare himself, and they must have had a great deal of common ground, for they remained deep in conversation throughout the meal.
She looked about for Charles, praying he’d ignored James’s summons. Alas, whatever James had said to him had done the trick—Charles was at the table, bracketed by Jemima and Lady Rossbury. He was leaning close to the latter, evidently doing his best to amuse her with some scandalous on-dit, but even his charm and wit brought no more than the wisp of a smile to her face.
When he caught Emma watching, he winked at her and broke into a feral grin that promised all kinds of delicious wickedness when they were next alone.
She turned away, hating him. He’d ruined her chances and even her friendship with James, and the sooner she crushed his pretensions, the better. Somehow, in time, she would endeavor to bring James round. She’d find a way to rekindle what had sparked between them—the flare of passion that had promised to become an inferno. It was too precious to let slip through her fingers.
Not that James was giving her any cause to hope. She glanced at him often and sometimes caught him subjecting her to an intense, thoughtful stare. But when he met her eye, he didn’t smile or even look self-conscious. He just acknowledged her attention, then looked elsewhere.
The more he snubbed her, the greater her frustration grew. And her despair. She wanted to take him outside and shake him until his teeth rattled, tell him to stop thinking the worst of her, but to have faith in her, and to brush off Charles’s behavior as a minor irritant.
But a large part of her warned that she might well have lost James forever. She’d hoped he would stand his ground and fight for her. For them. But he was just giving in and bowing out, exactly as he had with Belinda.
After dinner, when the gathering crowded into the music room, she expected either Charles or James to seek her out, but neither did. Instead, it was her brother George, who, to her great consternation, insisted she sit at the pianoforte to demonstrate how much better her playing had become. Sir Richard, overhearing this, added his own exhortations, so she was forced to perform before the entire room.
As she concentrated on working her way through the first piece without making any errors, she could see James from the corner of her eye. He sat very still, slightly forward in his chair, gazing at her with an intensity that brought a flush to her cheek. She willed her audience to blame it on modesty and forced herself to play on, regardless of his scrutiny.
Her mind flew back to the time when he’d sat and sketched her, when she’d felt his perusal like a caress, as if he were tracing every feature with his finger, stroking every hollow, his touch lingering in every curve.
Curse it! Would this piece never end? As soon as she hit the last note, she leaped up from the pianoforte, inviting Jemima to take over. Then she scurried off to find a chair at the back of the room near an open doorway, and let the light breeze cool her burning cheeks.
From her new position, she subjected James to the same scrutiny he’d fixed on her. But alas, the longer she looked at him, the more handsome and desirable he became.
And all the more beyond her reach.
There were pretty young women aplenty at the house party, any of whom could make a suitable bride for a future earl. Why would he waste his time on Emma, with her ruined family, her embarrassing term as a servant, and her unfortunate ability to hurt him when he was at his most vulnerable?
These unhappy thoughts continued to assail her an hour later as she lay in the big bed she was sharing with Jemima. The girl was an excellent sleeper and went out like a flame in a breeze, but Emma lay staring up at the heavy canopy long after the candles had been extinguished and all sound of activity in the house had ceased.
She wondered where James was sleeping. Was he anywhere close by? For all she knew, he might be in the next room, just the other side of the elegantly papered wall, staring up at the invisible stars just as she was, unable to sleep with the heat and the excitement.
No, probably not. He was no stranger to excitement, parties, or grand dinners. If he was awake at all, he might be mentally shuffling through the relative charms of the other young ladies in the company. Or he might be thinking how disappointing Emma’s playing had been, or finding fault with her features, having examined them so minutely tonight. Perhaps he was lying in his bed reading one of the hundreds of tomes available in Colt Hoare’s library, his thoughts tangled in French history or ensnared in the arithmetic of Palladian architecture.
Bother! Why hadn’t she thought to fetch a book? It would be better than just lying here, goaded by her roiling thoughts.
Lord, was this what love felt like?
Or was it obsession?
Whatever it was, the need was building up in her so powerfully that she feared if she couldn’t secure James’s affections, she’d go mad.
And that madness would provoke her to act. Even if it meant doing something…
Well, something rather scandalous.