Chapter 9
If a lady is to enter into the state of marriage, she would be wise to select a gentleman in possession of a sense of humor.
Mrs. Matcher
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
As Emilia resumed latching her skates, Heath considered his previous discourse with the lady.
He didn’t speak of his childhood or his late brother or… well, really, any parts of himself with anyone.
Somewhere along the way, his father and tutors had ingrained those lessons in him, until Heath had become a master at erecting barriers between himself and everyone else. Those rules had even extended to his only living brother, Graham, a brother who’d come to despise him—and rightfully so.
Here in this copse, however, Emilia Aberdeen had managed to compel Heath to speak about parts of himself he’d never shared with another soul.
What was more, she was also the only person who’d ever asked about who Heath was as a person.
To everyone else, Heath was a marquess who’d one day be duke.
The all-important heir.
He was the ducal heir who always did that which was expected of him. The world neither knew, nor cared, that he’d been snatched from the schoolroom one day by his father, and all those pleasures he’d once found in life had become forbidden. His reputation as the responsible one had only been solidified after Lawrence’s death in Heath’s bid to ease some of his parents’ heartbreak.
It felt so very good now to simply be… a man.
A man like anyone else, and not just a man with a title.
“How do I know if it is tight enough?” she asked, briefly lifting her gaze from her skates.
“If it is uncomfortable, you know you’ve fastened it enough.”
An endearing little frown puckered her brow. “Hmph. If one has to focus on pain, it takes away from some of the pleasure.”
Pushing to a stand, Heath jammed his gloves on and then held out a palm. “The more one wears skates, the more comfortable and natural-fitting they become.”
“There is nothing natural in either walking or gliding upon a narrow blade just a fraction of the width of one’s foot,” she muttered under her breath as he drew her to her feet.
“Ah, but where is that earlier enthusiasm?”
“It was replaced by sore feet,” she said, and with her palms in his, she allowed him to lead her to the edge of the shore.
As he guided her, Heath grinned. When was the last time he’d enjoyed himself like this? Ever? He stopped five paces away, and Emilia looked questioningly up at him.
“You should try for yourself, so you can have a feel for them.” Even as he didn’t want to relinquish her hands. Even as there was a natural rightness to the fit of her palms in his.
Horrified, he tried to yank his hands away. Emilia, however, retained an impressive death grip on him. He tried again.
“Why do I get the idea that you’re trying to be rid of me, Heath Whitworth?” she asked as she at last relinquished her hold on him.
She knew him not at all if she believed that. She didn’t know that she’d been a girl he’d been too in awe of to approach as a boy—and a woman he’d longed for before, and then shamefully, after his best friend had wooed and won her. “Help you,” he said, backing toward the frozen lake. “I’m attempting to help you.”
“And walking backwards?” She snorted. “Now you’re gloating, my lord.”
“Hardly.” He bristled, giving the lapels of his cloak a tug. “That will come after my jumps on the ice.”
Emilia’s laugh emerged slightly husky, as if from ill use, but unrestrained and bell-like as it filtered through the copse. Hers was a temptress’ smile, and her siren’s laugh made a mockery of the honorable existence he sought to live.
The heel of his blade snagged a root and slashed across those shameful musings.
Heath cursed as he came crashing down to the earth, landing hard on his arse for a third time this week.
Emilia’s laughter abruptly died. “Heath,” she called. With her arms stretched out to balance herself, she ambled toward him on her skates.
He sighed, wanting the earth to open up and swallow him into some hidden realm where humiliation ceased to be a worry.
“Are you all right?” she asked, picking her way over the same damned root that had felled him and stopping above him.
“Quite so.” Wounded pride likely healed.
Emilia held a hand out, and his gaze went to the offering she stretched toward him. “Come, now,” she said, shaking her fingers when he made no move to take them. “There is no harm in asking for help,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “Or so said a wise man before. Literally just before.”
He chuckled, and then slipping his hand into hers, he levered himself upright, careful not to propel the spirited minx back. They made their way to the lake, and Heath held his elbow out. “Shall we?”
Emilia jabbed a finger toward the clouded sky. “Carpe diem!” She cleared her throat. “That is, with a bit of help.”
Grinning, Heath took her by the hands, and scissoring his legs, he skated backward slowly, pulling Emilia along with him.
A small, breathless laugh filtered from her lips.
Because of him.
Though, in fairness, it was more the whole skating business… But it was with him, and that was enough. He who’d never believed himself charming enough or engaging enough for the spirited Emilia Aberdeen had brought her to laughter.
“You look very pleased with yourself, Lord Heath,” she said primly and looked down at the ice. Her right foot slid sideways. Gasping, Emilia retrained her focus on her unsteady feet.
“I am.” Immensely. Only never for the reasons she’d dare believe. “It helps if you look up. You’re pitching your weight forward,” he explained, gliding back and drawing her with him. Heath brought them to a stop alongside a boulder at the opposite shore.
Emilia frowned. “What is this?”
“Part of learning to skate is watching how to move on the blades.” With her zeal, she’d always be racing, and as such, the spirited woman would always chafe at being a mere observer of life.
He braced for resistance, but then she perched on the edge of the boulder. “Very well,” she said. Loosening the ribbons under her chin, she let her bonnet fall back. The faintest flicker of sunlight penetrated a break in the heavy blanket of clouds overhead, and that lone ray bathed her pale blonde strands in a soft, ethereal glow. “As you were, Lord Heath.”
As you were…
All business she was.
It was a necessary and perfectly timed reminder. Not only was the lady uninterested, she was, and would forever be, off-limits. Steeling his resolve with that age-old logic, he returned to her lesson. “It is natural to keep your weight forward or to lean it out,” he explained, demonstrating those two erroneous positions. “However, when you’re just beginning, the secret of skating is to keep your knees shoulder-width apart.” Heath moved his legs into that proper pose. “This is what will really allow you to keep your weight over your skates.” He stared expectantly at her.
Emilia shook her head.
“Try the feel of that positioning.”
She hesitated a moment and then used the boulder as a crutch to lever herself up. “I’m going to fall, Heath Whitworth.”
“Perhaps,” he called back. “But our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”
“Confucius,” she mumbled as she picked her way slowly over to the ice and inched onto the frozen surface of the lake. That was who she’d always been—fearless, unwilling to allow any challenge to stand in front of her. “You are using your scholarly lessons against me.”
“I’m using them to help you,” he corrected. “The first rule to remember is you do not want your weight too far forward, like this.” He leaned over his skates. “Or too far over your heels. Shoulders square. Chest out.”
Emilia immediately assumed the correct positioning. “Splendid.” He skated forward. “Now, you’re going to push with your right foot, so turn your right skate in, like so.” He angled his blade. “Bend your knee slightly.”
“Like this?”
“A bit more. When you push, the weight is going to shift over to your left knee. Push yourself forward by the toe of your skate and go.”
Emilia gave herself a little shove and pushed slowly forward. A small laugh escaped her. “I’ve done it,” she cried. The sound of her laughter was so infectious, he found himself joining her.
“Brava, madam.” He clapped. “Now again, and this time, when you propel yourself, balance on just one skate and allow the glide to continue longer.”
They continued on, with Heath guiding her through the lesson, and the morning melted into early afternoon. His fingers were numb, and his cheeks frozen from cold, but God help him, Heath wanted this moment to go on forever.
Riveted, he gazed at Emilia propelling herself across the ice with the ease of one who’d had blades strapped to her feet the whole of her life.
He had no right enjoying this moment with her. He had no right to steal happiness from her, when it had been only a great sacrifice that had ended her betrothal with Renaud.
Heath, however, proved himself more a bastard than he’d ever believed, because he couldn’t care. He could not stop seeing her, Emilia, in this moment, her cheeks stung red from the morning cold and a number of golden curls hanging loosely about her shoulders, tossed free through her movements.
She was an Aspasia, one who captivated with her beauty and proved enthralling in her keen wit.
As she sailed past, his gaze went to her mouth, a crimson-kissed rosebud that he wanted to taste and explore and—
This was too much…
His mother’s favor asked too much of him. “We should be returning,” he said abruptly. “It is… cold.”
Continuing to skate by him, Emilia cupped her hands around her mouth. “D-do you truly wish to return?” The cold had lent a faint quiver to her voice.
No, he wanted to remain here with her while the rest of the world melted away and only they two remained. Which was precisely why they had to leave—now.
“We’ll be missed,” he pressed as she took another pass by him. “The guests will wonder.”
“Oh, come, they’ll never expect we’re together.”
Nay, that much was true. Nonetheless, the more time he spent with her, the more his control over his desire for this woman frayed.
“You promised me an ice j-jump, Heath.”
She was unrelenting. “It is late. It is no longer morn.”
That seemed to reach her. Emilia brought herself to a stop and glanced around at the heavily wooded grounds. “Then”—she pointed toward the sky—“carpe noctem!”
A hopeless laugh shook his frame as he swiped a hand over his face. “It is hardly night.”
“Well, the longer you stay out here, failing to make good on your promise, the closer we get to it.”
Pushing himself forward, Heath scissored his legs with an increasing rapidity, building momentum, and then he launched himself into the air.
The exhilarating rush of cold air filling his lungs and slapping his face reminded him all over again of how much he loved skating in the dead of winter.
The moment his blades touched the ice, Emilia erupted into applause. Her laughter filtered around the copse. “Now, that is skating.”
Damned if her praise didn’t send pride rushing through him. He grinned as the peal of her laughter pulled another round of merriment from his chest.
Stay with her out here. That is what you want.
He warred with himself, and honor, as it always did, invariably won out. “Come,” he said gruffly. Skating back, he held his elbow out.
“Oh, fine.” She stuck her tongue out. “You are ever the addle-plot, Heath Whitworth. Amet viros neque sanctiores.”
He winced. “Destroyer of fun?” No truer words had ever been spoken, and they were very apropos ones from the woman who’d failed to see him in all the years she’d been alive.
“I always thought even an insult when spoken in Latin has a lovely sound to it.”
Yes, she was correct on that score.
“Do you make it a habit of speaking in Latin?” he asked, seeking out that detail he would have liked to have known about the lady over the years if fate hadn’t marked her forbidden.
“Oh, quite regularly.” They neared the boulder, and as they did, Emilia disentangled her arm and skated off. “It quite drives my mother mad.”
“I can only imagine.” Knowing the duchess as he did, Heath could hear the shrill scolding such Latin phrases were met with. “Undoubtedly, she regrets whichever clever governess is responsible for that elucidation.”
Emilia stilled, the bonnet dangling from her fingers. “It wasn’t any governess,” she said softly. That would be the likely—if erroneous—conclusion to come to. The Duchess of Gayle would have never tolerated a governess who instructed her daughter in anything other than topics deemed suitable for a proper English lady. “I taught myself,” she murmured, fiddling with the velvet ribbons.
“You taught yourself?” he echoed.
An air of sadness hovered between them, and before she even uttered her next words, Heath knew the source of that sorrow.
He balled his hands, wishing he’d not teased or asked about her skill with Latin.
“It was after Connell,” she said quietly.
Renaud. The ghost between them. Only, Renaud was no ghost. He is very much alive and very much real… and very much still in love with the woman before you. “Oh,” he said dumbly. For, really, what was there to say?
Emilia jammed her bonnet atop her head. “Forgive me. It’s hardly appropriate to speak about… it… him… that… any of it… us… with you.”
Us. A word that bespoke of Emilia Aberdeen and another, the one who’d won her heart and then had broken it.
You know that betrayal was not without purpose. You know Renaud was as gutted as the woman before you.
As fluid as one who’d skated the whole of her life, Emilia pushed herself forward with the tip of her skate and glided past him.
Heath stared after her retreating frame. She’d given him an out. She’d offered a window into her pain and then allowed him the option to close it.
Selfishly, he didn’t want to hear another word about how the affable duke’s defection had prompted her skill with Latin. And yet, when her gaze had caught and held his, Heath had seen something there. A sad little glimmer in those cornflower-blue depths that should only sparkle with merriment. She wanted to speak… about Renaud.
Heath briefly closed his eyes.
Damn my pathetic, pitiably weak soul.
“Surely you don’t intend to casually drop the reason for your mastery of Latin and just skate off without another word,” he called after her.
Emilia came to a slow, jerky halt.
He remained where he stood, allowing her to make whatever move she wished, more than half hoping she would choose silence.
With the tip of her skate, Emilia guided herself back around so that they faced each other. “Every gossip paper wrote of it,” she said, her tones carrying over, and yet, for what she spoke of, they were surprisingly steady, and almost matter-of-fact. Which was impossible. She had always loved, and no doubt still loved, Renaud to distraction. “Day in and day out. Everyone was speaking of it. My parents, my friends, the whole world, it seemed.” She rubbed her gloved palms together as if she sought to bring warmth to her digits. “I didn’t want to hear their words and think about…” She went silent for a moment.
Unbidden, Heath forced his feet to move, and he drifted over to her. “Yes?” he urged her quietly as he stopped, his blades kicking up shavings of ice.
Emilia lifted her chin mutinously. Had there ever been a woman prouder? “I wanted a new language that no one around me was speaking or reading or writing.” A breeze dislodged her bonnet.
“And so you taught yourself Latin.”
She nodded, a proud little smile on her lips. “And so I taught myself Latin,” she echoed.
He could very well let her telling end there. He very well should let her telling end there. “Why Latin?”
“Well,” she went on, her tones lighter than they’d been before, “it is, of course, essential that any proper lady know French.” She gave a roll of her eyes, and he found himself grinning at that telltale disgust. “Italian and German are encouraged”—she held a finger up—“but only for the sake of singing and understanding performances conducted in those tongues, and even then only sometimes German. Alas, there were two languages…” She added another finger, holding two aloft. That movement cost Emilia her balance. Her left skate went out from under her, and Heath caught her by the waist, keeping her upright. His fingers curled reflexively.
Emilia’s breath caught. Or was that his own?
Release her. Think of Renaud.
His heart hammered in his ears. Heath could think only of her. He drew her closer, so close their bodies were pressed to each other, and he saw, felt, and heard each intake of her rapidly drawn breath. “And what of the other two languages?” he whispered against her ear.
“Greek,” she exhaled. “The other Latin. They were deemed”—her gaze drifted over his face—“wholly unsuitable and nothing any proper lady should”—her lashes fluttered—“or could master.” Emilia tipped her face up.
I am lost.
Heath covered her mouth with his, claiming that luscious rosebud flesh he’d both dreamed of and lamented for almost fifteen years.
A little moan spilled from her lips, a heady symphony of her desire… for him, and it only fueled an insatiable hunger.
Keeping one hand about her waist to keep Emilia upright, he cupped his other under the generous swell of her buttocks and guided her into the vee of his legs.
“I should stop this,” Heath rasped against her mouth.
“I’ll not forgive you if you do, Heathcliff Whitworth.” With that, Emilia tangled her fingers in his hair, and gripping his head, she opened her mouth.
He slipped his tongue inside, and they tangled in a primitive ritual. Sparring. Branding each other. Just as he’d longed to. Only, this embrace contained a bliss far greater than any wicked dream he’d carried of this moment.
“Heath.” She moaned his name, both a plea and a demand for more.
Angling his head, Heath deepened the kiss.
He was on fire.
He was—
His legs went out from under him, shattering their contact.
He went down hard on his arse, an increasingly all-too-familiar state with and around this woman.
Heath grunted as the punishing ice sent pain radiating along his legs. Emilia came tumbling down atop him.
They lay there in a tangle of limbs, Emilia draped over his frame. Neither spoke, and when their rasping breaths at last settled into even cadences, Heath helped Emilia up and then followed behind her. This time as they made for the shore, neither of them spoke.
A short while later, they began the long trek back to Everleigh. In silence.