"No, don't worry." He heard the sudden softening in his own voice. "I didn't mind."
They looked at each other for a moment in comfortable silence, and then Emelia seemed to come to herself and stood, running her hands along her skirt nervously.
"Well, I didn't come here to stare at you. I came to help you recuperate. What would best aid in your healing?" She moved as though to go back to the wash basin, but Montgomery held up his hand with a weak laugh.
"I don't think I need any more cool clothes just now. I feel very tired, and a little anxious to get out of this bed, nothing more."
Emelia bit her lip, curling it under her teeth in a way that seemed to Montgomery to be surprisingly irresistible. Then, as though hitting upon the perfect idea, her face lit up.
"Then I shall have to make this room something you're comfortable to rest in and not at all anxious to leave."
Montgomery didn't say it aloud, but he was thinking that Emelia's presence alone lent the room that particular quality she desired.
"What do you have in mind?" he asked simply.
"A game," she said, walking over to his bookshelves and, after a moment, pulling a mancala board off the uppermost shelf by his desk. "Look! I played this with stones and holes in the ground when I was a little girl. Where did you get such a beautiful board?"
Montgomery looked at it tenderly. "My father. He brought it over during one of his travels abroad. It's beautiful; middle eastern."
Emelia set it down on the bedspread between them and then poured the smooth aqua stones out into one palm, counting them out evenly into each player's board. Montgomery watched with amusement, loving the way her delicate hands fingered each bead solemnly before dropping it into the proper divot, as though she could somehow mess up this simplest of tasks.
When she was finished, she nodded.
"You can go first, since you're an invalid now." She winked at him, her voice lighter than he'd ever heard it. "I will cater to your intellect, which is almost certainly lessened by the fever."
"You will regret your kindness, lady," he teased in response, picking up the first stone to move along the playing board. "I was quite good at this board when I was a young boy."
"I wouldn't know," she shrugged, playing her pieces in turn. "You were such an old boy when I finally met you that I never saw the mancala-playing, joyful lad at all."
Montgomery raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. "My dear, you are seeing that lad at this very moment."
She did beat him, soundly, in fact. Montgomery was only a little surprised—after all, Emelia had always seemed to him to have a sharp intellect carefully hidden under the duties and requirements of a traditional lady. He closed his eyes, listening to her exclamations of delight with a feeling of warm peace spreading in his chest.
This was true healing; he felt like more than the fever was slipping away in the presence of this slim young woman. She was going into all his closets, including the one where he hid his guiltiest feelings about his father and his stressful fears about his work, and she was banishing each monster and ghost with intoxicating grace.
Chapter 27
Brody rode up to the door of his home with his heart in his throat. He had the letter his mother had sent tucked into the sleeve of his coat, and it burned there like an ill omen. She'd written of Montgomery's illness and Brody had ridden home as soon as he received the information, but the familiarity between this sudden strike of sickness and his father's suffering was too close for comfort.
He slid off his horse almost before it had fully stopped and wrapped the reins around the marble post at the base of the stairs before climbing the staircase two steps at a time. The butler opened the door on the second knock and waved him inside, calling to the livery boy to tend to the horse as he did so.
"Where is he?" Brody walked past the man, already headed down the hallway with his coat still on and his hat upon his head.
"Brody." It was his mother's voice. She was standing in the hallway, and for the first time since their father's death she was wearing a color other than black—it was a simple gown, but the green silk set off her eyes. "I'm glad you've come."
"Mother. Is he—?"
"Recovering nicely. He's in the lower parlor at the moment, so when you have collected yourself you can go down that direction and see him. I know he will be glad of it."
"What happened?" He felt his heart thudding into a more regular rhythm.
"We're still not sure, but the fever was indeed life threatening. Thankfully your dear friend came over and tended to him during the worst of it; now he's only looking to regain his strength."
"My friend?" That's when Brody heard it for the first time: the strains of faint music drifting down the hall. It was a woman's voice singing—a familiar voice—and the tune was light and sad, set in a minor key. It wasn't a song he'd heard before, and Brody walked softly past his mother and down the hall to the parlor from where it issued.
At the door, he paused so that he was hidden and could observe the scene inside without being noticed.
Montgomery was lying on a couch by the fireside. The windows had been opened to let in the light, but there was still a fire burning in the hearth, likely to keep the English chill away from Montgomery's weak immune system.
He was in a dressing gown and had his dark hair ruffled and astray. He sat on the couch as though he'd been reading a moment before, but the book had slipped from his fingers and he was turning his entire gaze on the other figure in the room: Emelia.
Brody noticed her presence with an odd, not entirely satisfactory, start. She was dressed in a smile brown gown and had her loose hair pulled back in a chignon at the base of her neck. She was sitting at the pianoforte in the corner, her fingers picking out a lilting melody to accompany her music, and her voice lifted delicately with the music. It was a fine voice; Brody had always thought so.
Emelia had none of the violent strength in her voice that accompanied the magnificent opera singers of London, but her voice always made Brody think of the laughing sound of a country brook or the clear notes of birdsong. She was singing a song he'd never heard before.
"Ten thousand ladies in the room/ but my true love's the fairest bloom/ of stars she is my brightest sun/ I said I would have her or none."
Montgomery seemed to see the birdsong and the brook in the woman sitting before him as well, and Brody found he was as captured by his brother's expression as he was by Emelia. Brody had never seen his brother look at anyone like that before.
His face was a curious mixture of enchantment and struggle, as though he wanted to keep his wits about him, but had lost the battle. He was falling for Emelia. And she, picking away at the instrument with her gaze lowered and her song light—was she in love with Montgomery? Was it possible?
"Down in a mead the other day/ as carelessly I went my way/ and plucked flowers red and blue/ I little thought what love could do."
It was a song of love lost, a heart-wrenching little tale to be sure, but Brody couldn’t take his mind away from the serene little songbird. He didn't know exactly what he thought about this turn of events.
He had never, despite the rumors in the county, really considered himself to be in love with Emelia, but to see this turn of events after everything they'd both sacrificed for Hannah and Montgomery's happiness was jarring. And yet she had come, hadn't she, and nursed Montgomery? That was not the action of a mere friend. She was building into the final verse, her tone clear and wistful.
"I wish, I wish, but 'tis in vain/ I wish I had my heart again!/ With silver chain and diamond locks, / I'd fasten it in a golden—"
He'd been spotted.
"Brody!" She stood up quickly from the pianoforte seat and stepped around the edge of the instrument, a little flustered.
Brody came to himself and stepped into the room fully, taking off his hat at last and walking straight to his brother. "You've looked better, old chap," he said, forcing himself to keep his tone light. He wasn'
t able to look straight at Emelia. He was angry, and he didn't know why. "Why do you wait to have a near-death experience until I leave the county? You know how I love a bit of excitement on a dull day."
Montgomery smiled easily and reached out a hand to grasp his brother's. Brody noted that his hand squeezed only weakly and felt a stab of compassion for his older brother's ordeal.
"Sorry, brother," Montgomery was saying, waving his hand to the chair. "I didn't exactly plan this little setback. I had plenty of help, though. You needn't have worried. I was in very good hands."
"I heard." Brody glanced only briefly at Emelia, who was still standing frozen by the pianoforte. She looked at the ground. "Still," he said, his tone more serious, "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I won't be leaving again any time soon, though, so if you need anything at all I'm happy to provide my assistance."
Montgomery grinned lopsidedly. "Well, I wouldn’t mind a chess partner. Emelia's beaten me twice today alone, and I can't take another blow to my pride."
The friendship implied by that comment; a camaraderie that had never before existed between the two, confused Brody. He tried to shake it off with another joke. "While I don't like the implication that I will be salve to your pride in an intellectual battle, I will agree to a game. Let me put my luggage upstairs and change into fresh clothes and then I'll be down." He looked at Emelia full on for the first time. "Perhaps you can help me?"
She swallowed and nodded. "Of course." She glanced at Montgomery. "I'll be back in a moment."
Brody could feel her following him into the hallway outside the parlor like a child awaiting discipline. He didn't turn around at first, but walked to the end of the long corridor where a window seat was tucked into the wall there. He sat down, and patted the cushion curtly. She followed suit.
"Brody, I'm glad you're back."
Brody knew he should beat around the bush; ask the edging questions first so as not to put Emelia on her guard, but he couldn’t. He'd always been rash, and now was no exception.
"Do you love him?"
The question hung between them for a moment and Emelia blinked. Brody could see her mind whirling and then, too late to be convincing, she gave a weak little laugh. "Montgomery? Brody, don’t be ridiculous. Even if—this is an improper question, and you've no right to ask it…I was just helping to care for him during his time of sickness."
"You never called him Montgomery before. Always Dr. Shaw."
"Of course I did, when we were children."
"You know what I mean."
She gave a little shrug and let out a shaky breath of air. "I have great respect for your brother, but if you're asking if I'm chasing after a position as his wife, you must remember his goals—he needs a smart, witty woman who can live beside him in London and handle all his high society aspirations."
"You have just given a reason why you think marriage is impossible, which means you've given this a bit of thought," Brody said, his heart confirming for him what his questions still sought out. "Tell me the truth, Em. We've always been honest with each other."
"Really? Have we?" Her face darkened suddenly and Brody saw a flare of passion in her dark eyes. "If you are really so set on us being honest with each other, then you will tell me the truth about your feelings for my sister."
Brody froze. This was unexpected indeed. He'd spent the last week in London going from one sparkling party to another, dancing with all the loveliest women and speaking to the wealthiest heiresses in the land.
He'd hoped, even though he wasn't yet willing to admit it to himself, that all this would take his mind off the starry-eyed, brown haired little lass living just next door. He hadn't thought his confusion on the subject was apparent to anyone.
"You have no right to ask that," he hedged. "I don't even know what you're talking about."
"Oh, so you can pressure me with impossible and irrelevant questions about your brother and I'm not allowed to do the same as regards my sister? You accuse me of giving a roundabout answer to your question, when you have transgressed in exactly the same manner." Emelia sat back, triumphant."
"Pardon me," Brody interjected, "but you're forgetting that the last weeks I've been bending over backward to get your sister into a safe and happy relationship with my brother. I think she's perfect for him, and I wouldn't be doing all this if I didn't believe so."
"Do you know what I think?" Emelia said softly, her eyes burning the truth out of Brody. "I think that you really don’t think Hannah is perfect. I think that behind all that bravado and pomp and circumstance you have a good heart and an unselfish love for your brother, and it's my sister's very charms that make you want to give her over to Montgomery—not only because you think he deserves everything good in the world, but because you don't think you deserve anything at all."
Brody sat back, Emelia's words striking a little too close to home. She was right—he wanted the woman he'd thought all along was right for his brother, and the guilt of this realisation was eating him up inside.
"We could always be honest with each other," Emelia said gently. "Why don't you just admit the truth about your own heart?"
Brody waited a beat too long to answer. If he had spoken at once the truth might have flowed out then and there, the words piling up one on top of the other and setting him free at last. But he couldn't. He waited, and then the old, foppish Brody—the one with a screen of charm and dandy behavior between him and anything real, rose his head again.
"Don't you remember?" he said with a forced laugh. "I don't have a heart. I don't even believe in love. I'm not to be tied down by such things. And I won't take a lecture on honesty from the woman who just nursed my brother out of a deadly illness and refuses to admit to me or herself why."
Emelia shook her head and stood, smoothing out her skirts. The tension between the two friends killed Brody, and he could see that it was hurting her too. They'd always been open about their thoughts and feelings, and now the things they were withholding stood between them like sentries guarding their true selves.
"Then we have nothing more to talk about," she said quietly.
He watched her walk away down the hall, hating the way her face and form reminded him of Hannah; and at the same time wishing her back again.
Chapter 28
Hannah was battling with a bit of muslin and embroidery thread when Brody came into the tea room a week later. She hadn't even known he was back in town. She hated the way her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him, just as it always had as of late.
"Hannah." He was dressed in a well-tailored ensemble with fine trim and edging and a bright red coat. His hair, always foppishly arranged, was particularly voluminous this morning. He set his gold-headed cane aside as he stepped into the room.
"Brody." She stood quickly, barely catching the embroidery before it tumbled to the floor. "A pleasure." She looked outside. "I'm sorry, but Emelia only just now left for a stroll in the garden. She'll probably be over to check on your brother later. Perhaps if you went home you could catch her—?"
"I didn't come to see her." He smiled that disarming, charming smile, as though it was perfectly normal for him to turn his attentions on Hannah instead of her older sister. "Do you have a moment?"
"Me?" She could hardly believe it. She sat back down and he followed suit, choosing the chair nearest her and leaning back as he always did with an air of a man who owned his surroundings. Hannah felt her heart beating in confusion and picked up her embroidery, busying herself with it to distract herself.
"Yes, I just spoke with Emelia yesterday, and I haven't had a chance to talk with you since I've been back from my trip to London."
A Lady's Perfect Match: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 20
