The Reunion by Sara Portman (6)

Emma wanted nothing more that evening than a few quiet hours reading alone in her room. There were several reasons she longed for that unattainable isolation, not the least of which was the rain that buffeted her uncle’s carriage as it rocked and bounced through the slick and puddled streets of London on its way to the residence of Lord and Lady Spitzer for their famed end-of-season ball. The carriage provided a cocoon of relative shelter, but the dampness penetrated and the sounds of the storm cut off any attempts at conversation.

It was just as well.

Emma had done all the talking she could tolerate over the past several days. Her disturbing conversation with the duke had been followed by a probing conversation with Lady Wolfe. She’d since had more than one troubling discussion with her aunt. The interactions had each been equally frustrating, as Emma had failed to make her point in any of them. The duke still considered himself engaged; Lady Wolfe still considered herself an authority on the subject of Emma’s future prospects; and Aunt Agatha still believed seeing this betrothal through to fruition meant the difference between success and failure in her duty to Emma’s parents.

In all honesty, her failures influencing Aunt Agatha and Lady Wolfe were minor annoyances compared to her apprehensions about the duke. He was too sure of himself. He had called her by her given name. Twice. He had called her Emmaline—not Emma, as her family did, but stripped of her courtesy title and spoken in his deep baritone, it was too familiar, too intimate. She didn’t like it.

She didn’t like that he had touched her either. She like even less that his touch had elicited an unexpected response. To her mind, his ability to interfere with her rational thinking justified a new level of wariness where he was concerned. When he’d clasped her shoulders and threatened to declare a great passion, he’d done so only to make his point. Stupidly, she’d been affected anyway.

She attributed the magnitude of its effect to the foreign nature of the sensation. Surely, if she’d invested the time most other young ladies did in chasing after gentlemen, she’d have encountered countless men she found appealing in appearance. Unfortunately, she was not accustomed to having the direct attention of a man such as the duke, or to the feelings that attention aroused. She was disappointed to think the first real hints of attraction she’d experienced were inspired by him. And now her curiosity had been piqued, which she saw as a personal failing.

In order to avoid Worley altogether, she had proposed declining the invitation to the Spitzer event, but her aunt insisted a late withdrawal would cause more speculation than an appearance. Beyond that, Mr. Greystoke was to be in attendance and she owed him some explanation or apology for her present predicament. Though he’d never directly addressed her with a proposal of marriage, his purpose in London was clear and his particular attention to Emma had been unmistakable.

The fact was, whether she wanted to marry Worley or not, she was currently engaged to the overbearing duke and, therefore, an ineligible match for Mr. Greystoke.

In truth, she didn’t know if she ever could have married him, kind and admirable though he was. She’d never been fully resigned to the idea. Neither did she want to marry the duke, but the feelings he had inspired with a simple touch on her arm and a whisper of breath on her neck left her thinking of attraction and desire—thoughts that had no business occupying the mind of an almost spinster with no prospects other than a fatherly old man.

Emma stared out the window at unfocused scenes of London while her thoughts settled on an important consideration.

In considering Mr. Greystoke, even half heartedly, hadn’t Emma accepted she could no longer hope for a match built upon a great shared affection? Common sense had dictated she consider Mr. Greystoke and now common sense probably required she consider the duke as well. It vexed her that the duke was correct in that point.

Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to truly consider either alternative.

She wanted to live at the cottage. She’d healed there. She felt whole there. Perhaps she could have given up life at the cottage for the opportunity for true affection and a family of her own—but not to raise another woman’s children with a man she didn’t love. And not to become the duchess of a man she barely knew.

She could not marry Mr. Greystoke and so she must speak with him. She would not marry the duke and so she vowed to stay well clear of him. She knew what she had to do, but still her mood was black. She rather thought the heavens agreed with her, for they’d done everything in their power to create an ill night for going out.

* * *

Emma’s first thought upon entering Lord and Lady Spitzer’s London residence was that it was not as grand as the Fairhaven’s and, if they refused to limit their guest list, they should have considered renting the assembly rooms rather than attempting to squeeze so many into the rooms of their town house. The event was already a crush. The din was assaulting, contributed to in no small part by the shouted greetings of Lord Spitzer’s nearly deaf mother as she stood with her son and his wife to greet arriving guests.

“So nice of you to come, my dear.” The diminutive woman shouted up from underneath a feather-adorned turban, making Emma feel particularly tall. “I was very fond of your mother, you know. Tragic, what happened.”

“Yes, it was. Thank you for your kind words.”

“I beg your pardon, dear?” The lady rose on her toes toward Emma, nearly skewering her with the feather.

“Yes, it was,” Emma shouted back. “Thank you for your kindness.”

The elderly woman nodded and turned to bark at the next newcomer.

Relieved to move on, Emma followed her aunt and uncle in greeting Lord and Lady Spitzer. Her relief was short-lived, however, when the first party they encountered upon entering the main salon was a group of ladies over which Lady Wolfe held court.

“Lady Ridgely.” She greeted Aunt Agatha with a simpering nod. “Why I was just commenting to some of the ladies what a lovely time my Georgiana had walking with the duke in the park while I visited you this week. She was so delighted to have received his particular attention.”

“I’m pleased she enjoyed it.” Aunt Agatha would never have pointed out Lady Wolfe’s poor memory of recent events, but Emma was tempted.

“How do you do, Lady Emmaline?” Lady Wolfe finally addressed her, though she didn’t appear to enjoy it and did not wait for a response. “It may interest you that I noted Mr. Greystoke’s attendance this evening.”

Emma was not surprised by Lady Wolfe’s less-than-subtle implication that girls such as her daughter were meant for men like the duke while Emma, whose social standing had been so reduced by her scandalous rejection and disinterest in society, should be grateful for the attention of Mr. Greystoke.

Because she could not disagree, she took offense not for herself but for Mr. Greystoke, who was an honorable gentleman. “I shall be happy to share his company, thank you.”

It was a well-timed reminder of the need to seek the gentleman out.

In the end, however, there proved no need, for Mr. Greystoke found Emma and her aunt soon after their quick departure from the company of the unpleasant Lady Wolfe. He strode purposefully toward them, his smile open and genuine, and Emma was assaulted by waves of guilt for what she had come to do.

He was slight in stature, by no stretch an intimidating man. Still, the streaks of gray in his hair and his reserved manner lent him an elegant dignity that defied the inexpensive cut of his clothing. Emma thought of the sum he must have invested in even modest clothing and accommodations to participate in a London season. Now the season was nearly over and he’d wasted most of it courting a woman who could not marry him.

He gave a slight bow upon reaching the ladies. “Lady Ridgley. Lady Emmaline. You are both lovely, as always.”

Aunt Agatha’s smile was genuine. “And you are as gracious as always. It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. Greystoke.”

He turned to Emma.

“Good evening, Mr. Greystoke,” she said, oddly glad the moment had come and would soon be done. “We are always glad for your company, as you must be aware.”

He appeared pleased at her comment and her guilt swelled.

If only she knew how to begin. How does one break an understanding that was never explicitly discussed?

Emma glanced at her aunt, who nodded encouragingly. Unfortunately, Emma did not need encouragement—she needed words. She turned an overly bright smile toward Mr. Greystoke. “I was hoping, actually, that we might have an opportunity to speak together. You may know…that is, you may have heard…”

She realized she was wringing her hands and slowly placed them at her sides. Her eyes fell to address him somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. “You see, four years ago I was engaged. To the Duke of Worley. Well, he wasn’t the duke then, but he is now. And we all believed he had died, but he clearly didn’t. And so now you see…well, I thought because you and I had become particular friends I should be the one to inform you that, well….”

Mr. Greystoke reached out and laid his hand on Emma’s arm to halt her speech.

She obeyed, relieved to adopt silence and await his reaction.

“There is no need to explain, Lady Emmaline. I understand the situation completely.”

At his words, a good portion of the tension lodged between Emma’s neck and shoulders fell away.

“Your betrothed, the duke, called on me this afternoon.”

“He what?” All of the tension in her shoulders returned anew. She gave her head a slight shake. “He called on you? Today?”

“Yes.” Mr. Greystoke nodded as though the news should be welcome.

Of all the arrogant things for that man to do. He had warned her, hadn’t he? She should have guessed he would not limit his attempts at persuasion to direct conversation. Mr. Greystoke had slowly and respectfully courted her for weeks. He did not deserve to be rudely warned off his course merely because it conflicted with the grand plans of a duke. She exhaled in an unsuccessful attempt to release her frustration and retain her composure.

“Mr. Greystoke,” she began, speaking in a slow and measured tone meant to calm her own rising ire as much as his, “please allow me to sincerely apologize for the high-handed manner in which I’m sure His Grace chose to inform you of our prior betrothal. It was entirely arranged by our parents. Everyone believed he’d died, otherwise I never—”

“There is no need for an apology, I assure you,” Mr. Greystoke interjected, a benign curve bending his lips. She could not find the merest hint of indignation in his manner, despite its clear provocation. “You could not have foreseen this,” he said reassuringly, “and the duke was quite gracious. I rather felt as though he were asking my permission.”

“Your permission?” She couldn’t seem to stop herself from repeating his words.

“Yes, in a way he did. He explained about the prior contract between your parents, but said he also knew that you and I…well, that I had courted you.” He cleared his throat. “He insisted that if I truly believed in your strong affection toward me, he would step aside and graciously allow you to withdraw from the engagement so that we could marry.”

Emma swallowed. The duke had offered to step aside? To allow her to marry Mr. Greystoke? She stared at Mr. Greystoke, his contented smile and purposeful approach taking on new meaning. Could one’s breath halt even as one’s pulse quickened? She swallowed heavily. Had the duke stepped aside? Had this man actually asked it of him? Had she just moved from one trap to another without any awareness that her future was being arranged without her consent or consultation?

“I told him, of course, that we got on amicably, but I did not imagine you were, well…in love…with me.” He coughed again. Then he grinned as though he found the entire thing amusing. “Can you imagine a man such as myself competing with a wealthy duke for a lady’s affections?”

Sweet air filled her lungs again. Of course a humble, unassuming man such as Mr. Greystoke would not have asked the duke to step aside. Emma decided she was not entirely comfortable with the magnitude of her panic, nor the significance of her relief upon hearing that the duke had not yielded her hand to Mr. Greystoke.

Aunt Agatha filled the hole left by Emma’s long silence. “You have been very gracious to accept that my niece and her betrothed must honor the commitment made by their parents.”

“Of course they must.” He gave a befuddled chuckle. “I never expected to be called upon by a duke, I can tell you—definitely not one who would treat me with the respect and deference I received from your fiancé, Lady Emmaline. He truly seemed willing to walk away at my word, though I would not have asked it of him.” Bemused, he shook his head.

Emma felt as though she were clinging to a wild horse that moved to everyone’s commands except her own. When had she become no more than a spectator in her own life? She had to regain some measure of authority over her own future. She had to speak on her own behalf. “I feel I should fully explain.” The words came about a bit louder and more frantic than she had intended. She released a quick breath. “It appears I am, in fact, betrothed to the duke,” she said carefully, “but I have not yet decided if I wish to remain so.”

“What’s this?” His brow furrowed—with concern or confusion, Emma couldn’t tell. “You don’t want to marry him?”

She wasn’t quite sure how to articulate it anymore. She didn’t want to marry him—at least she didn’t believe she did—yet somehow she was more certain now, following the duke’s return, that she did not wish to marry Mr. Greystoke either. And somehow all of his reasoning managed to make her objections feel more like childish obstinacy as opposed to common sense.

She struggled to give a sensible response. “It’s just that so much time has passed and I don’t really know him at all. The duke has openly confirmed our engagement, so if I withdraw now…well, you can imagine how my actions would be viewed. I would not really be a desirable match for anyone I suppose, given everything taken all together.” She punctuated her ramblings with a weak smile.

Mr. Greystoke addressed Emma earnestly. “I am not your father, Lady Emmaline, though I am nearly old enough to be,” he said with a brief, self-deprecating smile. “And it would seem I am not to be your husband, so I can claim no right to offer any opinion on your future. But allow me to say, as your friend, that I was much impressed by the Duke of Worley—not by his status or finery, but by the manner in which he treated me. Not many men of his ilk possess sufficient humility to show concern for a man with barely a fraction of his consequence.”

Emma swallowed. Humility? Perhaps he treated Mr. Greystoke respectfully, but what of her? He had trod upon her toes without any thought for it.

She stood a little straighter as she regarded Mr. Greystoke. “I do accept your advice, as my friend, and I am grateful for your concern. I have been feeling sorry for myself these past few days, wishing I were not in this difficult situation. Please, let me be sorry as well for the trouble I have caused you.”

“On the contrary, Lady Emmaline. I could never consider time spent in the company of a lovely young lady to be troublesome.”

His graciousness only added to her guilt. The guilt then fueled her anger at the duke. Of all the arrogant, high-handed, presumptuous… Oh, she could not think of enough words to describe how utterly unfair it was. To think the duke had very nearly ended their engagement by trapping her in another!

She had pledged to avoid the man for the evening, but could no longer do so. Instead, she felt compelled to seek him out immediately and tell him exactly what she thought of his interference.

* * *

The duke was maddeningly easy to locate. He had drawn a predictable crowd of admirers. Even Emma had to admit he was pleasant to look upon… from a distance, of course. If one did not linger close enough to be aware of his arrogance and insincerity, one could find him dashingly handsome. She had only moments before observed that Mr. Greystoke carried a quiet elegance, but there was no comparison between the two men. The duke was so much more.

Broad-shouldered and tall with an easy posture, he had the bearing of a man who didn’t need to claim a title to be consequential. Yet he possessed a very impressive title—one to match every other impressive thing about him, from his impossibly blue eyes to his richly dark hair.

It was annoying, that.

Emma maneuvered herself intentionally into the duke’s line of sight. After lingering there just long enough to be sure he was aware of her presence, she turned her back to him, smiling and nodding in another direction. She knew he would approach her before long, and he did.

“Good evening, my dear.”

The quietly spoken words traveled the entire length of her body before she slowly turned and faced him.

“Your Grace.” She focused on her effort to remain placid in his presence. Why was she so discomfited by his proximity?

“Each time I see you, I am more satisfied with our betrothal, Lady Emmaline. You are especially fetching this evening.”

She eyed him warily, displeased with the involuntary pleasure she experienced at his compliment. “What I am, Your Grace, is a few years older and a good deal taller than is quite fashionable for unmarried ladies.”

He laughed at her rebuke. It wasn’t a cold, brittle laugh, but warm and lustful. She was unwillingly enveloped by it and stepped back.

“What you are,” he said, “is unable to graciously accept a compliment. I did not, you’ll recall, declare you to be fashionable. I have no need for ‘fashionable.’ I am just a man, however, and find I do desire ‘fetching.’”

His eyes raked over her as he said it, and she was momentarily without the sharp retort she would so have liked to deliver.

“Tell me,” he continued at her silence. “If it is unfashionable to be tall when one is unmarried, but perfectly acceptable to be tall once one is wed, how do the wedded tall women ever become so, I wonder?”

She released a breath of laughter before she could prevent it. The thought was nonsensical, but exactly the sort of irrationality that thrived among society. “Very well, Your Grace. I concede every woman can be fashionable if she will simply wait until her particular attributes into vogue. Perhaps next year, tall brunette spinsters shall be all the rage.”

His grin was inviting. Too inviting. “Unfortunately for you, you will not be one. You shall be a tall, brunette duchess instead. Also quite popular, I am told.”

There it was. The reminder she needed. She had a purpose here if she could just manage to stay attentive to it. She squared her shoulders. “I thought perhaps we might find an opportunity to speak more privately, Your Grace.”

He nodded and in a few moments had orchestrated their separate but simultaneous exit from the ballroom followed shortly by a reunion on the garden path. It was startlingly easy. Emma wondered how any naïve young girl remained virtuous when propriety was so easily circumvented. If some young swain had pursued her with any persistence during her debut season, would she have been savvy enough to resist? She wasn’t certain. The involuntary sensations she experienced in the duke’s company had her wondering if she would be savvy enough even now.

“May I take your interest in a private word as a sign you’re becoming amenable to our engagement?”

Emma waited to respond to the duke’s question until they reached the privacy of a secluded corner of the small garden attached to the Spitzer residence. The evening was warm and the garden fragrant, but she could not enjoy it. Steeling herself against any silly, girlish fluttering she might be experiencing, she held herself erect as she addressed him.

“You may not.”

Her terse words triggered an abrupt collapse of his pleased expression. His brow arched. “Should I be concerned for my safety? We are without witnesses, I realize.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You may find your own humor diverting, just as you find your own intentions noble, but I do not.” She stepped toward him and glared. “How dare you speak with Mr. Greystoke on my behalf? You have no right to meddle in my personal affairs or in my future.”

“Many would disagree with you, you know, and insist your future husband is, in fact, obligated to be concerned with your personal affairs and, most certainly, your future. Mr. Greystoke didn’t seem offended by my calling on him.”

“I am offended. You are not my future husband. I am firmly decided. You may consider the engagement broken as of this moment.”

“You’ve decided, have you? You will marry Greystoke?” He shook his head. “Ridiculous.”

Emma took a step backward and crossed her arms over her chest. “I…I don’t plan to marry Mr. Greystoke either.”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “Well, if you’re not going to marry him and you’re not going to marry me, what the hell are you planning to do?”

Her chin jutted forward. “I have a cottage.”

He stopped, stared. “A cottage?”

“Yes. It’s mine. It was the only portion of my father’s estate that was not entailed. I inherited it when my parents died.” She did not reveal that the cottage was very near his home at Brantmoor.

“I see. And how do you plan to sustain yourself in this cottage. Have you an income?”

“A modest one, from funds set aside by my father.” She straightened her shoulders, bristling under the mocking tone of his question. “I assure you, I will not be a pauper.” She would not be wealthy by any means, but what need had one of carriages and gowns when one lived in the countryside anyway?

“You’re allowing yourself to be ruled by pride. The daughter of an earl would never be content in a country cottage, with no wealth or diversion.”

She stepped forward. Her finger poked his chest, intentionally disregarding its unyielding expanse. “That insulting statement only proves you know nothing of me or what I require to be content. The cottage is my home and has been for three full years. I reside there except when I am visiting my aunt and uncle.” Her hands landed on her hips. “If I had only had the good sense to remain there, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

She expected him to rant more, to tell her how ridiculous she was to choose life in a cottage when she might live with her aunt and uncle, or with him if they married, yet he said nothing. He stepped to the small stone bench nearby and waved his hand, inviting her to sit. She did, taking care to leave the few inches of unoccupied seat between them.

His brow furrowed, he studied her as one might a specimen of some academic interest. “You and I know very little about each other.”

Emma exhaled, relieved to know her words had somehow penetrated. “Virtually nothing, Your Grace.”

His shoulders slumped slightly and she thought she heard him release a sigh before he looked up at her. “You may dispense with ‘Your Grace,’ if you’d like. The formality seems a bit odd in the context of such frank conversation, wouldn’t you say? My name is John. There were no titles in Boston.”

John. She knew she would think of him as John from now on, though she had no intention of speaking it. Emma’s eyes fell to her hands as she held them in her lap. “Perhaps the formality is more appropriate, Your Grace, since we are not to be married after all.”

She looked up to find him gazing intently at her, his blue eyes seeming shadowed by more than the moonlit darkness. She was acutely aware of the narrow stretch of stone that separated them.

“I’m going to tell you a story that I’ve shared with very few people. Once I do, I’ll feel damned foolish addressing you formally all the time.”

She bravely held his gaze, though her instinct was to hide from it. “What sort of story?”

His tone was grave as he continued. “My father was not a good man. He was irrationally jealous of my mother, convinced she was engaging in all sorts of affairs. I’ll tell you I was young and had no way of knowing, but my mother denied all of it until her death and I’m inclined to believe her.”

He paused as though awaiting her acceptance of that fact, so Emma nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“When his rages became intolerable and he began insisting Charlotte was another man’s daughter, my mother feared for Charlotte’s safety and fled. My father told everyone they were visiting distant relatives in America. A few months later he reported learning they’d caught fever and died. I spent my entire childhood believing my mother and sister were dead.”

He seemed ready to share more, so Emma probed softly. “How did you learn otherwise?”

“After I finished my schooling. My mother contacted me through a solicitor to tell me that she and my sister were alive and in need of help. My father knew this and refused to aid them—his own daughter. I sent everything I could spare and some I could not, but it was not enough. My father thought my debts had grown from a dissolute lifestyle and agreed to pay them if I fulfilled my duty and got married.”

“Hence our engagement,” Emma concluded softly.

“Yes. And when I learned that my mother had taken ill and the two of them were left quite alone and unprotected…I had no choice but to go to them. Charlotte has endured hardships she should not have.” He stared into the evening darkness. “I want to begin to make things right for her, to restore even a piece of what she has lost. No—all of what she has lost.”

He had so much conviction as he spoke of his sister. She found it startling—and inspiring. How could she not be moved by such an impassioned speech? “Emma,” she said after a silent moment. “My family call me Emma.”

John turned and smiled. She was glad her small gesture had restored it and at the same time, apprehensive for the quickening it caused in her heartbeat.

“Emma.” He reached over and pulled her hand into his lap, where he held it. “I’ve been so intent on my purpose, I’ve been very inconsiderate of your feelings.”

Emma struggled to characterize her feelings at just that moment. He held her hand, nothing more, yet she felt anticipation as though she stood on the precipice of something far greater.

“Emma, I am sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you, both then and now.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed. Could he have any way of knowing how this simple contact was affecting her? Would she be less affected if she had more experience with courting and flirtation?

“You’ve surprised me, you know. So much about you is…unexpected. How could I have foreseen such a clever, headstrong, and beautiful woman who’d rather live alone in a cottage than among the whirl of high society?” His hand reached up, and she froze as he allowed his fingers to graze her face. “Perhaps if I’d realized,” he teased, “I’d have taken you with me four years ago.”

What an odd sensation, Emma thought, to feel as though one were both rigid with anxiety melting into liquid all at the same time. John’s gaze dropped to her lips and she felt, perhaps even wished, that he might kiss her.

Did she truly want him to kiss her? She’d chosen the life of an old maid. Could there be much harm if she allowed herself a kiss before she did?

She felt herself leaning forward, felt her eyelids fall just as his lips brushed hers. Her body had never seemed so interconnected before, with the touch to her lips wreaking such havoc elsewhere on her form. She felt a weightlessness low in her middle that grew as his mouth lingered on hers.

Then it was over and he pulled away as gently as he had come.

“Now I’m certain I should have taken you with me,” he whispered. His smile was wry, but the intensity that lingered in his eyes matched the sensations that still coursed through Emma’s body.

She gazed up at him, unsure what to say, aware of the heat in her cheeks, aware of her chest as it rose and fell.

He closed the distance between them again. “May I have your permission, Emma,” he implored her, “to kiss you again?”

Her brief nod was barely executed when his lips met hers again. This touch was not soft or teasing, but met the urgency she hadn’t realized she harbored as he crushed his mouth to hers. She felt his hands settle on her waist and pull her closer. Her arms roped around his neck.

She hesitated only an instant when she felt his tongue gently probe her lips apart. When she opened for him, and the kiss deepened, the only thought still finding purchase in her mind was what a shame it would be to live out her life never having experienced this, never having fulfilled—even just once—the promise of where this could lead.

His lips separated from hers and trailed kisses across her jaw and onto her neck as her head lolled back, cradled by his arm. Whenever had she become such a wanton and why didn’t she seem to care? She should care. This was more than a simple kiss. Yet she clung to him.

Voices nearby penetrated her awareness, suddenly confirming that she did care. She was draped across the duke’s lap for heaven’s sake!

“Damn.” John’s muttered curse confirmed he’d heard them as well.

Emma pushed against John’s chest, trying awkwardly to rise until his hands closed around her waist. In one swift movement, he rose from the bench, lifting her with him, and set her neatly with her feet on the ground. He pushed her in the direction of the house and whispered an urgent, “Go!”

She went, darting into the cover of the garden path and hurrying toward the house, all the while reaching up to gauge the condition of her hair and assure her dress was straight. She stopped just beyond the door that led to the rear hall and took several deep breaths to collect herself.

My God, what had she been thinking? She’d nearly trapped herself into the very marriage she’d been trying to avoid!

No. She discounted the thought as soon as it materialized. John could not have planned to force her hand by compromising her. He’d been more useful than she had in helping her flee before she was seen.

She should go inside, but she couldn’t yet. She crossed her arms over her stomach and took two more deep breaths.

As quickly as her brain ceased reeling from John’s kisses, it was tumbling again over the story he’d shared about his family. Emma could scarce believe it. She no longer wondered at his malevolence upon their first meeting. Would she have reacted differently in his place. What a monster the old duke was! Imagine abandoning one’s daughter at just fourteen years of age to fend for herself without protection? She could hardly comprehend it.

His son had done the opposite. John had sacrificed everything to rush to his family’s aid. His father might have lived for decades, leaving him in exile indefinitely with no title or wealth or advantage of birth. If the old duke had been a monster, what did that mean for the new duke? She was not entirely comfortable declaring him the hero of this melodrama, but she suspected he may be. He had put the fortunes of his mother and sister ahead of his own.

Emma wondered who else knew how low the old duke had sunk in abandoning his family. Why, if she had children of her own, she would protect them at any cost.

Silly thoughts, really. Old maids living in country cottages did not have children. For that matter, neither did they engage in the kind of activity in which she had been an enthusiastic participant only minutes before.

Emma leaned against the wall and touched her fingers to her lips—where he’d kissed her. She knew why she’d allowed him to kiss her. No rationale her mind could conjure would have been strong enough to fight her body’s will while his lips had hovered near hers. But why had he kissed her? She’d broken the engagement. It was over. They were not to be man and wife.

He should not have kissed her. He would have no reason or occasion to kiss her again.

She had no sound reason to feel disappointment.