Chapter Thirty-Eight
The following day, to James’s relief, their host arranged a picnic luncheon for his guests on the lawn by the lake. This gave James an excuse to wander about outside and avoid unwanted conversations. He lurked at the edge of the activity, observing and—though he hated to admit it—waiting for Emma to appear.
He’d found he couldn’t be at rest if he didn’t know where she was and with whom. The idea of her being in company with Charles was tearing him apart, but he’d promised himself not to interfere. For his own peace of mind.
Charles must be given the chance to redeem himself by making an offer to Emma.
And Emma must be free to choose between her two suitors.
James tried to distract himself by watching the small army of servants clear the goose droppings from the grass and shoo the waterfowl to the island in the middle of the lake. Various blankets, tablecloths, and picnic tables were then set up near the shore. A few brave coots swam back and cronked crossly at the disruption, but ultimately they gave up, allowing tranquility to return.
Ah, more guests were coming out of the house. Was she among them?
Yes, she was.
His breath caught as he gazed at her, then he forced himself to turn away. He might be behaving like a lovesick idiot, but he still had his pride.
If she refused Charles, should he court her again? Had he embarrassed her with the strength of his feelings, because they were feelings she felt unable to return? After all, she hadn’t accepted his proposal as he’d expected, but had begged for time to consider. Had he disgusted her with his unbridled passion? Why, he’d practically thrown himself at her that night at Sydney Gardens—she must have thought him a complete rake to seize and kiss her in a public place like that, quite out of the blue.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. No, his future courtship of Miss Emma d’Ibert would be subtle, slow, and persuasive. He’d rein back his desires and court her gently, politely, as a true gentleman should a lady.
Assuming she refused Charles.
But what if the tables were turned on him, and she accepted Charles, despite her protestations to the contrary?
That outcome was unthinkable. He might just have to call Charles out and shoot him. That would solve the issue nicely.
The sound of laughter jerked him from his disturbing thoughts. Some of the boats and a punt had been brought out and were being sculled inexpertly around the island. He should offer to take some of the children out later—he loved hearing their squeals of delight at the speed of his rowing.
He looked for Emma again, but she was no longer sitting where she had been. His mouth suddenly dry, he cast about for Charles, but he was nowhere to be seen, either.
Panic gripped him. This was the moment that would make or break his future hopes.
He walked across to the buffet table, realized he wasn’t hungry, and stalked back to find a seat on the blankets. But he couldn’t stay there, either. Every position was uncomfortable, and there were no conversations he was interested in joining. To calm himself, he began walking along the margins of the lake…and caught sight of a woman disappearing into the recently erected Greek temple.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. He recognized that gown—Emma’s. Why Charles had to drag her quite so far away from the company to have his private conversation, James couldn’t fathom. Couldn’t they just converse as they walked, instead of disappearing into the Stygian gloom of one of the follies?
It was no good. He had to go and find them. Not to eavesdrop, but to be on hand should Emma need him. Charles was apt to sulk when disappointed—or even cut up rough—and James didn’t want Emma to be on the receiving end of one of his friend’s temper tantrums.
Correction: erstwhile friend.
He half walked, half ran to the colonnaded pavilion of the folly, then paused by the open door and peered inside. The circular chamber was fed with light by a central oculus in the domed roof. Bathed in a golden glow in the middle of the floor—and clenched in a tight embrace—were Emma and Charles.
James’s heart turned to lead, and he looked away, biting down hard on his knuckles.
He’d gambled everything on a woman’s heart—and lost.
A muffled cry brought his head around sharply. Emma was stamping down hard on Charles’s foot and attempting to wrestle herself free. Each time his head darted forward to kiss her, she pulled away. The expression on her lovely face was not one of desire.
It was one of disgust.
James saw red.
The next instant, Charles was flailing about on the stone floor, and Emma was safe behind James, protected by his body.
Charles scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of fury. “You pushed me down! How dare you push me down!”
“Count yourself lucky I didn’t punch you,” James returned ominously.
“I should knock you down for that,” Charles said, squaring up to him. “You damn well deserve it.”
James didn’t move a muscle. “You’re welcome to try,” he said.
He watched impassively as Charles looked him up and down, weighed his chances, then lowered his fists and stood glaring at him malevolently.
When Emma made a small noise of distress behind him, he reached a hand back to reassure her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hit him in front of you, much as I want to draw his cork for manhandling you like that. Charles, it’s time you excused yourself from this house party.”
“But I’ve been enjoying myself—until now, that is.”
James raised an eyebrow and just stared at him.
Flashes of angry red appeared on Charles’s cheekbones. “You always were on the wrong side of arrogant, James,” he spat out.
“That’s enough. I don’t want to cross swords with you in front of Miss d’Ibert, and if you had anything of the gentleman in you at all, you wouldn’t, either.”
His former friend looked at him balefully, held his gaze for several heartbeats, then relaxed his shoulders. “Very well, I’ll leave. But you must stand by your part of our bargain. You won’t say a word to Aunt Letitia or Papa?”
“I’m a man of my word. Goodbye, Charles. From this moment on, I no longer consider myself your friend.”
“I shan’t lose any sleep over it,” Charles said sourly. He smoothed down his jacket and ran a hand through his hair before marching down the steps of the temple and off in the direction of the house.
James felt a brief moment of regret over the lost friendship. True, Charles had always had his flaws. It was just a shame he hadn’t been able to overcome them as he matured. Perhaps one day he would.
James then turned to face Emma, his heart kicking up to a rapid tattoo in his chest. Apart from looking a little pale, she appeared relatively unruffled.
“Bravo, Emma,” he said lightly. “You were making a good defense of yourself.”
She grimaced. “I’m mortified! I wish you hadn’t witnessed that. Nonetheless, I’m so grateful you came along.”
That sounded promising. Did it mean the crisis was over?
He stared up at the oculus, all emotion suspended. “Did he propose to you?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “He did, much to my surprise—and alarm. But without any enthusiasm. That didn’t come until after I refused him.”
The oculus misted, but James blinked it back into clarity and allowed himself to breathe again. “The dog!” he muttered. “I wish I had planted him a facer. But it would be wicked to draw blood in the presence of a lady.”
“You forget,” she said, gazing up at him with a growing smile, “I have no fear of blood. My brother is studying to be a doctor.”
She was teasing him.
Which gave him hope.
Looking down at her smiling rosebud mouth, he ached to feel it beneath his. But she’d already been mauled by one gentleman in the last few minutes and wouldn’t welcome the experience again so soon. Remembering his vow to woo her slowly, he offered her his arm.
“There’s boating on the lake,” he said. “I’ll row you out later if you like. Do you feel up to returning to the picnic?”
Her fingers tightened on the sleeve of his coat and a look of disappointment swept over her face, making him want to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
But this was neither the time nor the place.
Keeping his expression neutral, he helped her carefully down the steps and back onto the path, but his thoughts were in turmoil. There was so much he needed to say, so much he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know where to begin. It was probably best they make their way back to the picnic in companionable silence, rather than risk making a mull of things.
He was so thrilled by the success of his plan and the renewal of his hopes, he couldn’t eat a thing. The need to speak to Emma privately, to begin the task of fixing her heart on him, was gnawing at his insides. Sitting next to her, trying to make normal conversation with her brother and Jemima, taxed him to the point of nervous exhaustion.
After no more than a few minutes, he could take no more. “Miss d’Ibert, would you like me to take you out on the—”
He got no further. A warning shout from behind him was followed by a splash and a piercing scream.
Spinning around, he saw a little boat rocking wildly on the lake with a small child clinging inside it. Someone else was splashing madly about in the water. People leaped to their feet, uttering gasps of horror as they took in the situation.
With reflexes honed by his boxing bouts, James reacted before the company could draw its next breath. Shrugging out of his jacket, he flung it into Emma’s arms and ran swiftly to the water’s edge. There was no time to take off his boots—a child could drown in that time. He waded through the sucking mud and the shallows, and when he deemed it deep enough, he thrust forward and swam to the still-rocking boat.
A few strokes brought him to the struggling child. Treading water, he heaved her sodden weight up and managed to get her back into the boat without capsizing it. The blood thrummed in his ears so loudly he could barely hear the other child screaming. His only thought was to get the two of them safely to the bank.
Rather than risk tipping the boat over by climbing in himself, he took a few deep breaths and heaved the boat around so the prow was facing the shore. Then he set his shoulder to it and started to swim, pushing it before him. When his feet struck the bottom, he stood up and waded, pulling the boat along.
He was immediately surrounded by other gentlemen helping to beach the craft. His body ached from his efforts, but he ignored the pain. Though his vision was blurred by water and shock, he was able to see the two girls carried to safety. When he saw George bending over the child who’d fallen in, he knew he was no longer needed and collapsed onto the lawn, his chest heaving.
Emma was beside him instantly, pale and shaken. She tried to return his jacket but he waved it away— There was no point in getting that soaked, as well. He looked across at the group huddled around the child, heard some spluttering coughs, then saw a ripple of relief flow through the onlookers.
“She’s all right,” Emma told him. “George has got her breathing normally. She’ll be better in no time—children are built tough. Now, we need to get you out of these wet clothes.”
“No matter. They’ll dry soon enough in this heat.”
His breath was starting to ease, his heartbeat settling back to a more regular rhythm. But his mind was still in shock—such an ugly, frightening thing to happen so soon after the euphoria of his victory over Charles. The accident could so easily have become a tragedy.
Gazing over at Emma, he attempted a smile. “While everyone’s attention is focused elsewhere, could you please help me out of my boots? The leather will swell, and I won’t be able to get my feet out of them for days, just as at Waterloo. Though I fear it will undermine your dignity, and you may get muddy.”
“I don’t care about that,” she said, and set to it with a will. The first boot came off with a plop and landed in a dripping mess on the grass. The other followed soon after, and he removed his stockings and stood. The trek across the gravel into the house would be painful in bare feet, but he’d just have to grit his teeth.
Emma was wiping her muddy hands on the grass. There was black, noisome mud plastered down the front of her gown, but her eyes were on him, her face full of concern. “We must get you back to the house and into some dry clothes,” she said.
“And we must get you back to the house and into some clean ones,” he responded with a smile.
Together, they made their way back into the atrium, Emma holding her muddy skirts out and away from her petticoats, and him carrying his ruined Hessians, leaving a trail of water behind him.
She insisted on seeing him to his room and putting him into the care of his valet, who was given strict orders to get him dry and warm as soon as possible and to inform either herself or George should he develop the shivers.
“A dousing like that might just bring back another bout of the ague,” she explained, her hazel eyes somber, a small frown on her brow.
History was repeating itself, but this time he had no complaint. Forgetting the presence of his valet, he caught her face between his hands. “Don’t worry—I’m strong. My body’s learned to cope with far worse than a little energetic swimming. Now, let me go inside before I ruin Colt Hoare’s carpet. Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He’d rather see her before dinner. In his room, alone, so he could collect on the promise of her kiss.
And he also wanted her in his bed, naked, married to him—and in love with him.
He knew it was a lot to hope for.
But nothing on earth would make him give up now.