Uncle Cecil considered while he sipped his drink. “Although he still has much to learn,” he added.
Aunt Agnes spoke up with a comment that echoed what Emily hoped. “He is no different than young William.”
Well, Emily thought he was quite different than William in form and appearance. She smiled as she thought of the figure Alexander cut across the room, but said nothing. She only wanted to listen and learn about him. There was no purpose to her wonderings.
It was not as if he was the object of her desire. Was that what he was? Was she enamored of Alexander? She startled at the thought. Surely, it was not so. She turned her attention back to her aunt who was speaking.
“Once he takes a wife and has children of his own, he will settle more. You shall see.” Aunt Agnes smiled with fondness for her neighbor.
Emily blushed heatedly at her aunt’s comment, but kept her own council.
“Alexander is about more things at the moment than the quest for a wife,” Cecil replied, his eyes rested searchingly upon Emily. She looked down into her cup.
“Nonsense, the harvest has passed, and he has the full winter to explore the possibility,” Aunt Agnes argued.
“What he has is the full winter to reevaluate and plan for the coming spring. It will be here before we know it and he had two full fields that lost crop to flooding. The lands must support the entail, and there is Lords.”
“But you said that he was well received by the other members of the Peerage,” Aunt Agnes pressed.
“Yes, even those with more years to their name,” Uncle Cecil agreed. “That does not mean he can neglect London society, not at his age.”
“Not like an old codger like you,” Aunt Agnes teased.
“No. I have told him, he cannot neglect Parliament, although I doubt he will love the trip to London.” Uncle Cecil considered. “The young duke has a long road ahead in more ways than one.”
“Will he and William travel together?” Sir Eldorf asked.
“More likely, he will travel back with Edmund and myself,” Emily added, the thought sending a little thrill through her. She felt her face heat, but she could blame it on the closeness of the crowded room.
Uncle Cecil’s eyes stayed upon her, studying her queerly. The old man saw entirely too much, Emily thought.
“In any case, he cannot repair his father’s blight in a day, my love,” Aunt Agnes placed her hand along her husband’s arm and he turned to her. She offered him a soft look that Emily could not understand as they were supposed to be arguing. “And a wife will take time as well.”
“Fiddlesticks,” Uncle Cecil said. “I saw you. I wanted you. I married you.”
“Is that how it was?” Aunt Agnes said with fire in her eyes. “I beg to differ. It took me decades to sort you out, and I have only just now got you right where I want you.”
“Is that so?” Uncle Cecil whispered something to his wife and she blushed like a schoolgirl. He raised his glass then in salute. “If that is how it is, I pray that the duke sorts out Bramblewood before a woman comes to sort him!”
“She would have to be quite a woman to be equal to the task,” Eldorf said.
“Indeed,” Uncle Cecil replied.
Emily laughed and the conversation turned to the winter’s grain storage, the spring floods and the devastation left behind by the influenza.
She was glad to hear that the young duke had taken the role of his title to heart and attempted to make improvements to his estate. Emily knew he had learned little enough of such things from his father, who had cared nothing for progress and only kept up Bramblewood Park for his own amusement.
Alexander would have much to test on his own. Emily was happy for his successes, but there was a small part of her that wished the man had been covered in flaws. Perhaps then she could more easily dismiss him from her mind.
She heard of the new duke’s adventures and exploits, mostly those tales included her own brother. Emily felt that as most men do, Alexander was still in need of maturation. Although, that was not so much a flaw; it comforted her somewhat to know that the boy she once knew may still exist to some small degree within the new duke.
Robert Hawthorne did not need maturing, her interfering conscience interjected. You can always marry him, but compared to Alexander, Robert was made of stone. Alexander was flesh and blood, deliciously so, and Emily was not the only one who noticed his virility.
Whispers and ladies eager eyes followed him about the room. Emily could determine one thing; the young duke was a distinct cause of interest. Whether that was the result of feminine fancy or his own flirtatious ways, she could not say, but it left her most unsettled.
Later that evening, Emily cornered Edmund in the hall.
“What can you mean by not telling me that Alexander’s father died? How much time has passed?” she exclaimed. “I might have sent my regrets rather than looking like a selfish and uncaring fool. He was my friend once.”
“Is he not still your friend?”
“He must think I am a horrible person,” Emily said.
“Nonsense,” Edmund replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s Alexander’s fault really.”
“How so?”
“He asked me not to tell at first, and perhaps that was a wrong choice. He said you would never think of him the same, unless you learned of it in person and could see that he was unchanged by the title. Of course, I do not think he expected you to be away for so long.”
“But it was years ago,” Emily said weakly.
“Truthfully, it has been so long, I forgot that you did not know until just this night. And he was right. You do look at him differently, don’t you.” Edmund asked raising a questioning brow.
Emily let her eyes find the young duke in the crowd. He was surrounded by beautiful ladies, and she felt her eyes narrow. “Of course not,” she snapped.
“Truly?”
“Well, yes. Of course, I look at him differently. That is true!” she agreed. “But not for his title. We are both different people now.”
“Not really,” Edmund laughed. “Your dresses are fancier and you are a bit taller; that is all. You are still Em in here.” He tapped her most inappropriately on the chest. “Where it counts you are the same,” Edmund said, “and so is he.”
“Edmund, when will you see that things have changed? That they must change,” Emily sighed. “I am a grown woman now, soon to be married. How I interact and with whom must reflect accordingly upon my character. The same goes for you. You cannot go about plucking at braids and hopping in puddles any longer.”
Edmund raised a shoulder in a haphazard shrug. “I shall hop in puddles as I wish,” He said. “And as for braids, well a lady’s hair is much more fun to pull these days.”
“Oh Edmund, you know what I mean. People shall talk.”
“You make it all sound so dismal,” he complained. “As if our lives are over before they have even really begun. Is that really how you see things?”
“I don’t know,” she said miserably.
“Is that the marriage you want for yourself?” Edmund pressed.
“Of course not.” She snapped heatedly.
“Then don’t let it happen, Em. Simple as that.” He drained his glass and rejoined the party, leaving his sister deeply confused.
7
Alexander Burgess, the Duke of Bramblewood, let his eyes follow Emily Ingram as she walked across the room. Seeing her again was nothing like he had imagined. He was not sure he knew what he had expected. It was awkward. He had not expected it to be awkward.
Alexander was glad when Edmund found him. He never felt out of place at Sandstowe or in the presence of his friend, but the number of people at the party, people his father had castigated, was daunting indeed.
After Mr. Grimes, the butler, took his coat and hat, the young duke scanned the room. He saw Emily immediately, talking to her friend Anne Albright. For just a moment, the years melted away. She glanced at him and looked away as if she di
d not know him. The thought stung, and then Edmund was there with a hand on his shoulder.
“Come. I will introduce you to some of my friends from school. You know Harry Westlake of course, and Edgar Wickham.” Harry was most jovial, and in someway related to the Albrights. Edgar’s smile did not reach his eyes.
Alexander knew why. Not all of the people of Northwickshire were as accepting as Edmund’s aunt and uncle. In fact, most were not so. He would not think of that just now. He was at a party. It was Christmastide. He should be festive. He spoke, commenting on the weather and various families. His conversation degenerated to single word answers and then he stopped altogether. They assumed he was listening. No one noticed he was not.
He looked out over the crowd. He smiled but he could see the break: those who spoke and those who avoided him. The town seemed to solidify on both sides of the issue as if his parent’s marriage was a spectator sport. He supposed that was because his father never made any attempt to keep his degeneracy secret or even low key.
On one side, there were the people who either were invited to his father’s parties, or those who wished they were. On the other side was everyone else. These were the sincerely good people like Lord and Lady Stratton and the self-righteous who thought his mother was vastly maligned. Those who gave sage advice from the comfort of their own homes, but would not speak to him directly.
Truthfully, Alexander himself thought his mother was maligned. No, he corrected himself. He knew she was. His problem now was, for the most part, people put him in the box with his father, not unjustly so. After all, he was invited to the parties, in fact, quite often was commanded to attend. Except when he had not done, which bought him to a whole new kettle of stinking fish. Perhaps he should have just listened to his father. If he had, things would be vastly different.
More than once in his lifetime he had cursed the chance that had taken his mother from him in such an untimely way. His father had said he was grown, and should not cling to his mother’s apron strings any longer. She was dead anyway, his father said callously.
It was the first time Alexander hit the man. It felt good. He should have done so sooner, but Mother would not have approved. Mother would not have approved of much of his life lately, he thought. Accept for Emily. His mother would have approved of Emily. That he knew.
The young duke let his eyes follow Emily Ingram as she walked across the room her head held high as a queen. She was as he remembered her and not.
At first, he just watched her from a distance. She glanced in his direction, but obviously she did not recognize him. The thought unsettled him. He would know her anywhere.
The amber depths of her eyes were unlike any other. In the dark he would know her voice, and the scent of her. Across a room, he would pick out her silky hair, the color of sunshine and autumn leaves. He would enjoy the tiny wisps that fell along her freckled neck. She did not have so many of the tiny spots now. The duke was disappointed. In the years while she was gone, he had fantasized about kissing each and every one. Just the thought made his blood heat. He shook the image away.
This was Emily. She did not deserve such thoughts. Still, he enjoyed drinking in the view of her as she spoke with Anne. She was so animated. He remembered that about her: how she just exuded life. As she gestured, he watched her hands, gloved now, and he thought of how many times he had clasped her hands in his, warming them. The thought made him smile.
He had imagined Emily growing up more angular. He supposed, that notion was because he remembered her as an eleven year old, lithe and strong. She had a softness to her form now. He could see that even from a distance.
He was content to watch her, but Edmund saw the direction of his gaze and was impatient.
Edmund called to his sister and she came. She was beautiful and poised, and perfect. Still, Emily did not recognize him, not until her hand was in his. Yes, he thought, she knew him at a touch. It made sense.
Then, Edmund, thinking to give them a moment alone had bumped her. Alexander wasn’t quite sure if that was a-purpose or not, but he had caught her nonetheless, reflexes born of ducking blows at Bramblewood.
He was instantly transported to one of the dozen or so times they had tripped as children, sometimes laughing at each other; sometimes catching each other from hurt, but never awkward. How had their interaction become awkward?
He half expected her to turn and laugh, but her eyes were glued to the floor filled with mortification to find herself in his arms.
In that moment everything changed. They should have laughed at the silliness. That is what they would have done once, but he caught her and was instantly aware of how very soft she was, how very feminine. His body stirred at her nearness and somehow she knew. She knew the improper turn of his thoughts.
Silly him. She always knew. Emily was always half step ahead. How could she not know what he had done; what he had become?
She froze beneath his touch, but he could feel her trembling.
The duke expected some comment filled with innuendo, or scorn, but she only blushed, ignoring the sudden heat between them as he could not.
They stood so for what seemed like years and yet it was only a fleeting second too soon lost. She gave him an inane smile the likes of which he had never seen on her face. He released her, and stepped back.
What followed was bland conversation about the weather and the troubles in the land. He didn’t want to talk about troubles. She was here at last. He wanted to revel in her presence, but he felt as if she had turned to glass, or perhaps he had. If they touched; if they were real, they would both shatter.
When she walked away, he didn’t know how to call her back or how to fix the gulf that had sprung up between them, so he said nothing.
Later, in his usual room at Sandstowe, the young duke realized the truth of it. She had become tongue tied; Emily who always knew exactly the right thing to say. Suddenly she could no longer talk to him, and he didn’t want to talk either.
He had thought it had been so long since they had seen each other that they would want to talk and become reacquainted. He thought that they would be eager to share where their lives had gone in each other’s absence, but none of that happened.
In the moment, all he wanted to do was pull her close and kiss her. Would she have let him? He wondered. Or would she have run? Some of the self-assurance that he had so loved in her seemed lost. No. not lost, buried, he thought, buried under what the finishing school had taught her. At least that was what Edmund believed.
Emily was full of spirit. He did not think it could be gone. It was too much a part of her.
8
The winter morning dawned over Sandstowe Hill. The duke’s mind was still on Emily, but he did not see her again before he was forced to take his leave. He had a meeting in town to distribute the dwindling grain. He was sure if he were not there to keep order the Northwick townsfolk might come to blows.
He was still unaccustomed to the chaos of the regular meetings held each month in the Northwick town hall, but he held firm on the notion. Lord Stratton was right. The people needed to see him, and truthfully he had learned a lot from them. He wanted to be sure everyone had all that they needed. These people were his responsibility, but there seemed no end to their complaints in spite of his best efforts.
People who lived in want for most of their lives were quick to take from their neighbors. It was not something he could rectify in a single season. On the other side of the spectrum, many of the people of the area were proud. Those like Mr. Marksham, and would not take charity easily. They would rather starve than ask for help.
The truth was, Bramblewood Park and all of its outlying Northwickshire properties had fallen into disarray under his father’s haphazard guidance and the trust of the people was lost. When he took over the duchy the tenants thought of Alexander as irresponsible. They knew him too well as a child and not enough as a duke.
It would still be many more years before he proved himself to the locals
. Although he had their best interests at heart, there was little understanding between them. In truth, there was little trust among the townspeople themselves, never mind the nobility. He hoped his presence at the town meetings would ease their minds and let them see that he cared about them and their worries.
As Lord Stratton said, he must convince them that together they would solve whatever problems befell them. The most open-minded were beginning to see that Alexander was not his father. Some were willing to work with him, but the influenza had taken a toll. Now with winter in full swing and the tally of foodstuffs scarce after last year’s flooding, the people were worried. Frankly, so was the young duke.
He wanted his people happy and well fed with meaningful employment. Only then would he count himself a success as a member of the peerage. If his tenants could feed their families this winter, then Alexander would be one step closer to being a man worth the pride of his position.
Now, what to do with Mr. Marksham? The man had moved back to the area from London, but his acreage was all but useless with the flooding, and he had lost most of his harvest. Alexander had gone to school with Marksham. He hated to see the man in such dire straits, but he was too proud to accept help or charity. Just stubbornness, the duke thought.
With a sigh, Alexander turned to his land steward, Mr. James Barnes. The man had been packing up papers while the duke’s spoke to the men. He sent a boy to call for the carriage. Alexander thought he would have to hurry if he wanted to be home before dark.
Thoughts of completing the repairs on the manor made him smile. Alexander had, admittedly, already done much to improve the appearance of Bramblewood in the main rooms, but most of the repairs were only cosmetic. All of the rooms where his guests might wander at a party had been given some updates. Everything beyond that still needed work.
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