by Abby Ayles
Francis looked at Emma, barely hearing what she was saying. He was captivated by her vivid animation as she discussed the play, and her extensive knowledge of its finer details.
He had never met such a sharp, intelligent woman who spoke with such passion and fearlessness about intellectual things. For the first time, he saw Emma exactly as she was, without comparing her to Caroline.
She was absolutely beautiful, and she was taking his breath away more with each word she spoke.
Before he was aware of what he was doing, he leaned forward, until his face was just inches away from hers. He touched her cheek and kissed her, very softly, on the lips.
Her mouth was sweet and soft, and his heart began to race. His lips lingered on hers for the briefest of moments.
Then, Emma pulled away, her eyes wide. Before he could say a word, she leaped from her chair and fled from the room.
“Miss Baker, wait, please!” he called to her.
But she was already gone. He could hear her footsteps reach the staircase and fade away as she ascended.
He rose to follow her but thought better of it. Once more, he had frightened her, and he cursed himself. He knew that what he had done was highly inappropriate, and he regretted being so impulsive. But he could not bring himself to regret the kiss.
He just hoped that Emma did not and that he had not scared her away from him forever.
Chapter 17
Emma ran up the stairs, narrowly avoiding tripping on the hem of her skirt as she fled. She rushed straight to her room, closing the door quickly and leaning against it.
At once, she regretted running from Francis. She could not believe that she behaved like a flighty little girl. For months, there was nothing she wanted more than a kiss like that from him.
She wished fervently, but vainly, that she could go back and undo her childish, terrified reaction.
She began to pace around her room. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel his lips on hers. She felt her face burning and her skin flushing, and she was ashamed of herself.
It was not ladylike to allow a man to do something like kissing her, and it was even less so to become so warm and flustered about it. Yet, she could not help herself.
Despite her embarrassment, she could not ignore the fact that she had also enjoyed it. She also found herself afraid that, after running from him as she did, he would never again attempt to kiss her.
She had never been so confused in her life, and she was furious with herself.
One thing was now certain in her mind, however. Rosaline had been right all along. Francis wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
The confusion and conflicting signs and emotions were done, and the truth was clear at last. There was a small measure of relief in knowing that. She felt much less like a foolish child, hoping for something that was impossible.
With a groan, she realized that it was, indeed, impossible. No matter their feelings for each other, nothing more than that impromptu kiss would ever be between them.
Rosaline and Francis were being forced to marry one another, and there was little that any of them could do about it.
Emma felt tears sting her eyes, and she quickly dressed for bed. She had embarrassed herself enough for one night, and she refused to cry, even though she was alone in the room.
She laid her head down on her pillow and clutched the covers tightly to her chest. She drifted off to sleep, feeling both sadness for what could never be and longing for what she and Francis seemed to want so much.
***
The next morning, Francis was waiting just down the hall from her bedroom. She held her breath and put her head down, as though she could actually pretend that she did not see him.
“Em—Miss Baker,” he said. “Might I have a word?”
“My lord, can it not wait?” she said, desperate to avoid the conversation she was sure was coming.
“It is rather urgent,” he said, his voice reflecting as much.
“I do not think you wish me to be late beginning the children’s lessons, my lord,” she said.
“That is of little consequence at the moment,” he said, his voice increasing in its desperation.
“Then, perhaps you would wish to risk the children overhearing our conversation?” she asked.
Francis blanched, his mouth open. Emma seized the opportunity to slip by him quickly.
“Excuse me, my lord,” she murmured as she passed him.
The following days were no less uncomfortable and awkward.
At first, Francis continued trying to speak to Emma when they passed each other in the hall, but she always quickly excusing herself to see to the children’s lessons. She even refused to take her meals with the family, opting instead to take them in her room.
Then, one morning, after one such stiff exchange, Emma noticed Rowena peeking around the corner of the open door of the children’s bedroom.
As soon as the little girl saw Emma notice her, she ran from the doorway. Emma blushed furiously, wondering how much she had seen or heard. She lifted her head and tried to stride into the room with confidence, as though nothing strange was happening.
When she entered, the children were sitting in their chairs like statues. They were eerily quiet, but their eyes never left Emma. She took a deep breath, opened her book, and began the day’s lessons.
The children listened silently for ten minutes. Emma was just beginning to relax, believing that the children were not aware of anything odd going on, when Rowena raised her hand.
“Yes, Rowena?” she asked, smiling at the little girl.
“Why are you mad at Father?” she asked.
Emma paled. She stared at the little girl, not sure what to say.
“What makes you think that I am mad at your father?” she asked.
“You never talk to him anymore,” Rowena said.
“And you never have supper with us anymore,” Winston chimed in.
Emma winced. She should have known that the children were clever enough to notice even little things like that. She knew that some of the servants were talking amongst themselves, something they made apparent in the way they ceased speaking and stared at her whenever she would walk by or greet them.
Her face flooded with color, and again she cursed Francis for putting her in such a position.
“No, darlings,” she said. “I am not mad at your father.” What else can I say? she thought. I cannot very well tell them about the kiss.
“Then why do you avoid Father so?” Winston asked.
Emma thought quickly.
“He simply catches me at all the wrong times,” she said, feeling her smile turn into a grimace.
She felt terrible for lying to the children and worse still that they knew she was lying. But it would be highly inappropriate to try to explain the reason for the tension between their father and her.
“You could always talk to him at supper,” Winston said matter-of-factly.
At a loss for any more excuses, Emma simply nodded.
“I suppose that is true,” she said. “And, perhaps I will tonight. For now, though, we must get back to our lessons.”
Emma tried to make her voice sound cheerful and carefree, but Rowena’s lip began to tremble.
“You are angry with Father, and you are going to leave us, aren’t you?” she asked. She began to cry softly and put her face in her hands.
Emma rushed over to comfort the little girl. Winston looked at the pair, watching intently.
“Sweetheart, of course I am not going to leave,” Emma said.
“If Father has made you angry, or if you have angered him, he might make you leave,” she said through her tears.
Emma stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. At last, the right words came.
“Listen, Rowena. Both of you,” she paused, motioning to Winston to come to her side. He complied at once, and she noticed that tears were forming in his eyes, too.
“Your father and I are
not angry with each other. We have just both been extremely busy and very tired because of all the grown-up things we are trying to do.”
She paused again to take the children’s hands. “But, if we ever were angry with each other, we would sit down and talk through things. I would never just leave because one of us was angry.”
She smiled once more at the children, this time with much more sincerity. The children must have sensed the honesty in her words, because Winston smiled, and Rowena began to dry her tears.
“You promise?” Rowena asked, the uncertainty fading from her voice.
Emma gave Rowena her handkerchief and smiled again.
“I promise,” she said.
“Good,” Rowena said, throwing her arms around Emma’s neck. “We love you, Miss Baker.”
Emma hugged the little girl, blinking back her own tears.
“I love you both, too,” she said. “Now, why don’t we act out a scene from the play you two have been writing for me?”
“Yes,” Rowena and Winston said in unison, clapping with excitement as all their previous concerns were forgotten. Emma took her seat in the front of the room as the children moved the chairs to the side and took their places in the center of the room.
Once lessons were concluded, Emma sent the children to their nanny to dress and prepare for dinner. She stayed behind to put away books and tidy up for the next day, thinking all the while about what the children had said.
She knew that she should make an effort to speak to Francis, but she was unsure of how to even broach such a subject.
She supposed that she could allow him to bring it up again, as he had been trying to, but she half hoped, and half feared, that he would try to kiss her again. And, next time, she might not be able to shy away from him.
Not to mention that, if she were seen speaking to Francis privately by the servants who were already whispering, the rumors would likely never cease.
Nevertheless, she needed to do something to get past the awkwardness, for the children’s sake. She did not want to upset the children further, and her continued obstinance would do just that.
When she was finished, she headed for the door, intending to go to her quarters and dress to join the family for dinner. She stepped into the hallway, and almost right into Francis.
Emma gasped, her cheeks flushing.
“My lord, forgive me,” she said, laughing nervously. “You gave me a start.”
Francis’s face, originally tense when she first glanced at him, relaxed. He seemed relieved that she had not run away from him immediately this time.
“I believe it is I who should ask your forgiveness,” he said.
“For what, my lord?” she asked, regaining her composure and smiling, albeit still nervously.
“For startling you,” he said. “I assure you that it was not my intention to startle you.” He looked at her with great intensity. “I never mean to startle you.”
Emma caught the emphasis he put on his last statement, and all at once realized that he was not just referring to scaring her just then.
He was talking about the kiss. It had, in fact, startled her, but hearing him reference it in such a mundane way kind of irritated her.
“Not at all, my lord,” she said, holding her head high and giving him her best smile. “Think nothing more of it. It did not scare me into heart difficulties, so all is well.”
Francis did not smile at her humor. Instead, he continued staring at her with the same burning intensity.
“Really, Miss Baker,” he said, his voice firm. “I do sincerely apologize. I give you my word that it will not happen again.”
Emma stared at him, her agitation growing. Was he apologizing for scaring her into running away that evening? Or, was he now regretting having kissed her in the first place? The longer she stared at Francis, the more it seemed that he meant the latter.
Stifling her indignation, she lifted her chin higher. She tried to keep her smile, but her face felt stiffer.
“Consider it forgotten,” she said.
Francis looked at her face a moment longer. Then, he nodded. His expression changed to something unreadable, but Emma did not try to decipher it. She was angry, and the last thing she wanted to do was create a scene for the staff to overhear. They would be convinced that it was a lovers’ quarrel and strike up fresh rumors.
However, she was no longer in the mood to dine with Francis, even for the sake of the children. She had little appetite after that conversation, and the children would surely notice that the tension had intensified rather than waned.
As though reading her thoughts, Francis stepped aside and gestured toward the staircase.
“Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?” he asked.
Thinking quickly, she pressed her fingertips to the middle of her forehead.
“Perhaps I will come down for tea this evening,” she said. “Right now, I must lie down. I have a terrible headache.” To make her lie more believable, she creased her brow and winced, gently massaging where her fingers were resting.
“Should I send the children’s nurse?” he asked. After his odd apology, his concern was almost comical to Emma. She bit her lip to swallow a bitter remark.
“No, no, I will be fine,” she said. “I just need to rest for a little while.”
Francis nodded again.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall have a tray sent up to you shortly.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “Enjoy your supper.”
Francis stepped aside and Emma walked slowly to her room. She resisted the urge to stomp down the hallway - she knew Francis was still watching her. Once she was safely inside her room and out of his line of sight, she collapsed in a huff in a chair.
Only then did she let out a bitter laugh and an exasperated sigh. She stared out the window, for once not really taking in the beauty of the garden view.
If there was ever a more tiresome and frustrating man than Francis, she had certainly never met him. His apology had made her think that he was sorry for kissing his governess. But his concern for her health over a mere headache spoke altogether to the contrary.
She, of course, had no intention of joining him for tea that evening. She was too confused to even think clearly, let alone speak to him properly. Instead, she retrieved a book from one of the shelves and allowed herself to get lost in the lives of the fictional characters she had come to think of as her dear friends.
Chapter 18
Francis watched Emma walk into her room with many mixed emotions.
He was not sure how much he believed that she had a headache, but she did, indeed, look as though she needed rest. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were just a bit too pale.
Worst of all, he felt sure that he was responsible for those things.
Despite her vocalized forgiveness, he could not help but feel that the matter was not resolved. He wondered if she had, perhaps, misunderstood his apology.
What he was sorry for was scaring her. He would never be sorry for kissing her, not even though he could not marry her. That would always be one of the best moments of his life.
However, no matter how much he wanted to, he could not ensure that she understood his apology. In the days since the poorly timed kiss, he had seen the servants watching him and Emma suspiciously and heard them whispering rumors to one another as they passed by his study door.
If anyone should overhear him telling Emma that he was glad that he had kissed her, the rumors would worsen.
Francis cursed himself. He had known damn well better than to even walk into the den that night without a chaperone. He was furious with himself for putting Emma’s reputation in such jeopardy.
He had been so foolish and careless, caught up in a moment of overwhelming passion for her, that he had not even considered the future consequences for Emma.
The entire situation could wind up being spun into a lie so grand and terrible that it ruined her forever in the eyes
of everyone in the ton. Something so detrimental, no matter how untrue, would make her unmarriageable to any man.
He wished, now more than ever, that he could take back that kiss. He could live the rest of his life not knowing how her lips tasted if it saved her a lifetime of misery.
