Chapter Twenty-Three
Emma awoke with a catlike stretch. She’d not slept so well since she was a child. She rolled onto her side and sat up on the edge of the bed. The chill was an instant reminder that she was undressed. She grasped a handful of bedding and turned to look behind her.
The bed was empty. He was not there.
How late had she slept? She fetched a wrapper and walked to the window, peering out to take the measure of the day. Her window did not face east to allow her a view of the morning sun and its position, but she could see the early light reflecting on a lawn still wet with dew, still reflecting hues of sunrise gold.
She had not overslept. John had risen earlier still.
Or perhaps—not stayed.
As soon as she gave birth to the question, it set up stubborn residence in her mind. She fretted over the answer as she washed her face with water from the ewer, selected a morning dress, and pinned up her hair.
She could not pinpoint precisely why, but that information—whether her husband had slept the duration of the night in her bed—was suddenly of utmost importance. Yet she could not determine if he had. All his things were gone—boots, clothing—but that was no indication of when he had gathered them. Her own place on the mattress was no longer more than barely warm. Had his place cooled for minutes or hours? She could not say.
She paused. She was bent over her bed, running her hand over the mattress, looking for warm spots.
Silliness.
She snatched her hand back. What did it matter anyway? She shook her head to right her senses. Lord, she’d gone daft. Breakfast. Charlotte. Brantmoor. She had plenty of reasonable subjects on which she could be dwelling.
Emma checked her appearance one more time in her glass before making her way downstairs to the breakfast room. She fervently hoped this day would bring more peaceful relations with Charlotte and the incorrigible Mr. Brydges. If she was able to engage in one polite conversation with her new sister-in-law today, she would consider it a victory. There was much to be accomplished, after all, if the family intended to return to London before the season was out.
Emma walked into the breakfast room and noted, despite the early hour, she was the last to arrive. Three pairs of eyes rose to take in her entrance.
She should have been gratified to enter a peacefully quiet room. She should have been calmed to see that Charlotte had deigned to appear, in what was likely her best dress, and was eating politely in the company of Mr. Brydges. Instead, her eyes, with complete autonomy to her will, traveled to meet John’s and, unbidden, the memory of his words from the prior evening assailed her.
I will look through that and see you now, shivering with passion in my arms.
Oh heavens. She was not calm. Heat suffused her from head to toe and surely stained her cheeks with unattractive splotches of the brightest red. Could he tell she remembered? Could they all tell?
“Good morning,” she said in a clipped, overly bright tone. “You are all early risers, I see.”
When one’s thoughts were a jumble, as Emma’s most certainly were, one did not attempt complex conversation. Verbalizations of the obvious seemed achievement enough.
“Good morning.” John’s response sounded normal, but Emma caught the heat of his gaze coupled with the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth.
She averted her eyes to focus on her breakfast. If there had been conversation prior to her arrival, it did not continue then. The others ate in silence as Emma filled a plate from the sideboard and seated herself at the table.
“I have decided we shall return to London in three weeks’ time,” John announced once Emma had begun eating.
Emma swallowed. She sipped tea to wash down the bite upon which she’d nearly choked. “Three weeks?”
John nodded. “We will return to town in three weeks and hold a ball shortly thereafter. We shall all have a great deal to accomplish before then.” He turned and looked at Emma, triggering a fresh infusion of awkward heat. “The duchess is quite capable of making the necessary arrangements for such an event.” He directed his attention to his sister then. “Charlotte, you will involve yourself as well. You will not only need to ready yourself for London, but it will be beneficial to you to understand how these events are managed. You will likely be planning events such as this for your husband’s family one day.”
Charlotte cast a suspicious glance at Emma, as though this punishment of a task had been her doing.
“What about you?” Charlotte asked her brother. “What will you be doing?”
Charlotte’s question, impertinent though it was, echoed Emma’s thoughts. John had seemed to imply he would also be busily engaged and generally unavailable.
“There is a great deal of business with the estate to be addressed following my long absence, including the selection of a new secretary. Brydges has also agreed to stay with us these few weeks to assist me in evaluating and expanding our stables.”
Mr. Brydges was the subject of Charlotte’s unpleasant gaze this time. He smiled boldly back at her. She pouted.
“Charlotte,” Emma said, anxious to interrupt any brewing storm, “I have arranged for a dressmaker to be here this afternoon.” Every young girl appreciated new dresses—or at least most young girls. Emma had preferred horses to dresses, but she’d been a rather singular girl. Surely, Charlotte, who’d been raised with very little, would welcome new things.
“I have perfectly serviceable dresses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte,” John said, rising from the table. “Of course you need new dresses. Nothing you have will suffice. Emma knows what you need. Place your trust in her.”
Emma was once again the recipient of Charlotte’s ire. “I don’t want to meet the dressmaker today. I’m still tired from traveling.”
Emma exerted a valiant effort not to sigh too loudly. “I’m afraid rescheduling will not be possible.” Emma had expended considerable effort in persuading one of the most fashionable modistes in London to leave her shop at the height of the season and travel into the countryside to measure and dress the duke’s sister. She had promised an exorbitant expenditure and still several had declined.
“There is no time. It shall be today.” John gave the order with finality and quitted the room, as though the thing were done and no possible objection could remain.
Emma recognized the error of that assumption immediately. Charlotte, glaring back at her from across the table with pinched mouth and little blue fires set under slashes of dark, angry brow, was far from cowed.