The Reunion by Sara Portman (39)

John paced. His head ached because he’d drunk too much scotch the night before. He should close his eyes to drown the dim light of his study. He should ring the bell and have someone bring him a cold damp cloth for his pounding skull.

But he paced. And became angry at himself for being contrary. To himself.

What reason had he to feel so disgruntled? It was done. He had done his part. Everyone had done their God damned part. Emma, in particular, had been brilliantly clever. Why didn’t he feel relieved? Why was he plagued with restlessness?

There was a rap on the door.

“Come,” he bade. He would ask for the damn cloth after all.

The door swung wide and slammed the wall opposite with a merciless thud. It reverberated through his throbbing head.

“There you are,” Charlotte chirped at an excessively loud volume.

“Here I am,” he confirmed unnecessarily. “I know why I am here. Why are you here?”

Charlotte ignored the question and approached, undaunted, sharp eyes peering at him. “You are worse than I thought.”

He flashed her an annoyed look for her impertinence and retreated to the seat behind his desk. “I am fine, Charlotte,” he said, making what he considered a noble attempt to keep the edge from his tone. “I am tired and my head aches. I need nothing more than the absence of company.”

He chided himself as soon as the words were out. His foul mood was not due to Charlotte. It wasn’t due to anything that he could discern.

Charlotte was too thick-skinned to be put off by his cantankerous mood or thinly veiled request for solitude. “I don’t think you have any idea what you need,” she said, calmly settling into a chair opposite his desk.

“Whatever does that mean?”

She smiled. “Let us begin another way,” she suggested lightly, her mood impervious to the blackening influence of his own. “I’ve come to convey my gratitude. You’ve turned your entire life on its end for me. I may not have shown the proper gratitude all of the time, but I wish to show it now. I am beyond fortunate to have you as my brother. And as I am currently rather pleased with my situation, which I owe in no small part to you. I thank you.”

That made him feel churlish. Now he was grumpy with himself for behaving like an ass. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly. “I am sorry for my rudeness. It is only the ache in my head.”

Her lip pursed and drew to one side in an expression of patent disbelief.

She exhaled, rearranged her shoulders, and lay clasped hands in her lap. “Very well, then. Now it is your turn.”

She waited.

“Turn for what?” he asked.

“Your turn to thank me.”

He stared. His head was addled. “For what, precisely, am I to extend my gratitude?”

“Just as you have rearranged my life in a way I find satisfactory to me, I have rearranged yours in a way that should be satisfactory to you.”

“Have you now?” he asked. He was certain he would feel quite satisfied as soon as his headache dissipated, but he could hardly credit Charlotte with such an event.

Charlotte rose. Her pert expression tempered to one of pleading as she circled the desk to stand at his side as he sat and place one hand on his shoulder. “You’re my brother and I love you. I am the only family you have left, so I believe the task falls upon me to inform you that you are an ass.”

He turned and half-rose in his chair. “What?”

She released a beleaguered sigh. “You have the lucky fortune of accidentally marrying your love match. Please don’t follow in father’s footsteps,” she pleaded.

He slammed palms on the desk and rose all the way this time. “I assure you, I have no intention of following in father’s footsteps.”

“Good,” she said with a firm nod. She returned to the other side of the desk, leaving him standing there.

How could she even think he would become like their father? It cut deep that she thought it even worthy to point out.

Her expression held nothing but pure sincerity as she paused at the door to his study. “Father had a love match and he squandered it. He pushed her away. All the way to Boston. I do hope you don’t squander yours, John. Don’t repeat his mistake.”

Charlotte pulled the heavy door shut behind her as she quit the room.

John stared at the door as though it might open and provide some greater clarity with which to evaluate her parting sentiments.

* * *

Emma wasn’t entirely sure what to do with herself. She wasn’t lacking things to do, precisely, just the inclination to do them. Her growing pile of notes and invitations would be a reasonable place to start, but she wasn’t in a mood for correspondence.

She made a face at the pile.

Nothing that occurred to her as an outlet for her attention seemed likely to succeed in calming the tumult in her heart and her mind, despite her desperate need for it. Peace and calm. The particular brand of peace she sought today was resignation and acceptance. Her part was finished. All had been well at Charlotte’s debut. It had been entirely as scripted. Just as the rumors had enveloped the room early in the evening, so had the attitude, hours later, that so many ridiculous stories were just imaginative nonsense. Charlotte danced each dance—smiling, beautiful, and mysterious.

The last dance had been reserved for Mr. Brydges. No formal announcement had been made that evening, but the fact that both were spoken-for could not have been clearer upon their faces.

It had all gone exactly as it should have gone for Charlotte, and Emma was truly glad for her sister-in-law. She should be content, yet she had spent all morning chasing the elusive serenity in the small park at the center of the square over which Worley House presided. It was not quite a garden. It was certainly not her garden, but living things grew there and she had thought the surroundings might calm her emotions.

She had wandered at first, circling the space to investigate the few trees that populated it. Then she had found a small metal bench and simply contemplated.

Therein had been the trouble. She had found contemplation, rather than distraction, and thus no peace at all. She had returned to the house for a light luncheon, learned the duke had gone out, and spent much of the afternoon staring blindly at the pages of a novel she had located in the library.

She disliked this feeling—as though she were hungry for something in particular, but could not name the food and so could only go unsatisfied. No distraction seemed worthwhile.

She rose from her seat at the writing desk, letters still untouched and moved half-heartedly to the sofa. Perhaps, she thought, if the duke was still out, she should just take her supper in her room and retire for the evening. In the morning, she would be more ambitious in arranging for distraction. Perhaps she and Charlotte could call upon Aunt Agatha.

She had just decided that, yes, she would definitely call upon Aunt Agatha in the morning when she heard voices in the hall.

“Is the duchess in the library?” she heard her husband ask.

“In the front sitting room, Your Grace,” came the reply.

Emma rose, anticipating his entry, and felt a moment of frustration for the quickening of her pulse.

He walked into the room and caught her eyes with a look of determined purpose that seemed a warning. He strode to her and reached out to take her hands. His eyes caught hers and she was struck by the passion she saw there before he lowered his mouth to kiss her.

He kissed her thoroughly. He let go of her hands and placed his upon her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. She yielded to his passion completely, slipping her hands around him and returning his ardor, measure for measure. He released her mouth and dropped his lips to her throat and then to the swell of her décolletage. When he captured her mouth again, he placed his hand where his lips had been, teasing and cupping one breast through her gown until her nipple pebbled beneath his touch.

When she was absolutely certain she cared not one whit for peace or serenity or the possibility of someone walking into the parlor to find them, he pulled away, leaving her breathless and brain-addled. He stood one pace away and stared at her hungrily, as though at a signal from her, it would begin again.

She placed a hand over her chest as it rose and fell and felt her pulse pounding there. “I…were you…was there something you needed, then?” Her voice was weak for lack of breath.

He shook his head. “I will muddle the words, Emma. Before I did, I wanted to make my point more eloquently.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

His lips turned upward. “I could explain again.”

She held up a staying hand. “Let us try the words this time.”

He reached forward and took her hand. He didn’t use it to pull her into his embrace as before, but held it as he gazed warmly down at her. “I owe you an apology.”

“I’ve been so determined not to succumb to foolishness that I’ve been an even greater fool than I’d feared.”

It seemed a riddle she couldn’t solve. “Foolish, how?” she asked.

He backed away and raised a single finger. “Wait here.”

He darted from the room and returned moments later with a small copper pot. Rising from the pot was a white flower on a tall stem. He held it out to her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It is my apology,” he said, still extending the pot toward her.

She gazed at the unfamiliar flower. It was a single, tall green stem with one large, dark green leaf and the most graceful white flower she had ever seen. It was a single, fluted petal around a thick yellow stamen. Only the petal was longer on one side, as though if she held it upside down, it would resemble a skirt with a train.

“Where did it come from?” she asked, finally accepting the pot from him. She set it on the side table and seated herself next to it, to examine it more closely.

“From the botanist at Kew Gardens. He assures me it’s quite exotic. It’s an Ethiopian Calla.”

A calla lily. She’d heard of them. How lovely and graceful it was.

She looked up at her husband. “Thank you,” she said humbly. “It’s truly lovely.”

“It’s not an entire garden and I know a piece of your heart will always reside there, but perhaps this can be the place where a piece of your heart begins to reside too,” he said, lowering himself next to her on the sofa.

“I have been a prize fool,” he said, taking her hands in his. “My father’s jealousy and possessiveness toward my mother destroyed this family. I was convinced the only way to keep from repeating his mistake was to make certain I did not fall insensibly in love with my wife.”

Emma’s eyes and heart fell in unison. “I see.”

John set his finger below her chin and forced her eyes to meet his again. “In the end, my choice of wife could not have been more perfect for championing Charlotte. For keeping my indifference, however, it seems I have made a poor choice.”

Emma’s breath caught. “Have you?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

John stepped closer and slipped his arms around her waist. “I have worked very diligently to remain detached from you, Emma, but have failed in every respect. The more I have avoided your company, the more I have longed for it.” He held her eyes captive with a gaze that nearly melted her with its heat and intensity. “I realized today—with Charlotte’s help—that I had it all reversed.”

“Reversed?” she asked, barely able to voice the word.

“When I have been angry with you, you have been calm. When I have been irrational, you have been my reason. When I was defeated, you were victorious. You are not my folly, Emma. You are my balance. You are my sanity. You are precisely what I need, whenever I need it, and I don’t want to waste another moment not believing it. I love you, Emma.” He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

She leaned into it. Eyes closed, his lips still pressed to her skin, she murmured, “Oh, John, I thought I was the foolish one—to hope that I might ever hear those words.” She smiled. “They are just as wonderful as I thought they would be.”

“I love you,” he said again.

She clutched his strong hands in hers and kissed each one of them. “I love you too.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, pulling back to gaze at her again. He grinned sheepishly. “I am foolishly, insensibly, ridiculously in love with a woman who only married me out of pity for my sister and the convenience of my proximity to her cottage.”

Emma laughed, even as tears of love and joy pooled in her eyes. “And the title,” she reminded him as his mouth descended toward hers. “Do not forget the title.”