by Joyce Alec
"Yes, Mrs. Carter has kept us entertained while we waited for you. May I introduce my mother, Sarah Beckinsale, the Dowager Duchess of Ravenswood."
Emma curtseyed and lowered her eyes. "Pleased to meet you, Your Grace."
Sarah stepped forward and took hold of Emma's hand. "No need for all this formality. I'm pleased to meet a fellow lover of the macabre."
Emma grinned, immediately at ease with the woman. Her son, however, was a different story. She could swear the air crackled between them. "If you'd like to read more of that type of literature, I have a few favorites I can recommend." She took a step away from Paul, hoping to regain her equilibrium.
"Actually, we were just talking about what to do once you arrived back here. Your mother and I have gotten along so famously, we thought to head to the little tea shop around the corner and continue our lively discussion." Sarah tugged on Emma's hand, pulling her toward the group again.
Emma glanced up, her gaze taking in her mother, who looked animated for the first time in a long stretch, Sarah, for whom she had developed an immediate fondness, and Paul. She should not be entertaining the notion of appearing in public with Paul and his mother, especially not in the tea shop, where the proprietor had already reacted negatively the first time she and Paul had ventured forth. But her mother's eyes sparkled in delight at the prospect and Emma's better sense left her.
"Tea sounds delightful. And the scones are just lovely there." Emma could not deny her mother's obvious desire to continue this meeting.
Paul came to her side and offered his arm. "Shall we be off, then?" His deep voice resonated in her ear. When she laid her hand on it, a current ran from it to her core. Warmth and excitement washed over her.
She would not be regaining equilibrium today.
5
The last of the books Paul's mother insisted on buying after lunch had finally found a home on the bookshelves in the family library, where Paul and his mother now sat.
"What a fun day we had, right, Paul?" Sarah propped her feet up on a stool in a most unladylike fashion. But it was her home, so she could get away with whatever she wanted.
"Yes, Mother," He poured them each a glass of brandy, another of his mother's affectations she could get away with in the privacy of their home.
Paul had found ways to engage Emma in conversation at every moment. He wanted to know all about her. Every time she spoke, he became more entranced with her. There was no denying that a special connection had been formed, but the fact remained that he was a duke and she ran a barely profitable bookstore.
"You were glued to young Miss Carter's side the entire time we were at tea," his mother prodded.
"Please, Mother, none of your matchmaking. I'm quite content with my life." Paul rolled his shoulders.
"You haven't been content with your life in quite some time. I'm not getting any younger, Paul, and neither are you," his mother stated the obvious. "I want grandbabies while I can still roll around on the ground with them." She pierced him with her stare. "You've paid penance for Margaret long enough. It's time to marry a good woman and start your family."
Paul returned the stare. "But you're well aware I don't consort with 'good' women, Mother."
"I'd say Miss Carter qualifies, don't you? She's lively, intelligent, and very attractive." Sarah smiled sweetly at him.
"She's neither titled nor does she come with a dowry, so no, she doesn't qualify." Paul leveled a glare at his mother. "It's expected that, when I do decide to settle down, it will be with someone of an equal rank in society. Imagine the gossip that would surround that poor girl."
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, brushed a hand over them, and then took a sip of brandy. Paul noticed her eyes were shiny, as if she were holding back tears. He took a deep breath and waited for his mother to speak.
"You are my dearest son," her voice broke as she spoke.
Paul tried to lighten the mood. "Could it be because I'm your only son?"
Sarah reached over and swatted him lightly on the knee. "Don't be impertinent with me, young man. Since Margaret's death, you've defied convention at every turn, haven't you? The only good that came out of that nightmare is that you've developed your own sense of style. But it's time for the rake to hand over his title to a younger crowd. I say it's now time for you to trust that God has given you a second chance at true happiness when you met Miss Carter. And you need neither a title nor a dowry for that."
"You are saying you don't believe my happiness lies with an appropriate spouse?" Paul raised an eyebrow at her.
"Precisely! I think, instead of raising an eyebrow at me, you should attempt to raise the eyebrows of your peers by marrying who you want, rather than who's expected." Sarah leaned back in her chair and took a breath. "There are quite a few women out there who are totally appropriate, and who are totally boring. They are waiting for you to make a choice. You should choose wisely, but make the choice be one you want."
Paul leaned back, as well, and drained his snifter in one long gulp. "And you think Emma Carter is who I want?"
"Well, you certainly were unwilling to relinquish your gaze from her this afternoon," Sarah laughed lightly. "And her mother is a dear. Just think of it, Paul. You get a woman who's intriguing, and lovely to boot, and I get a companion. Who among your peers can say the same about their marriages?"
"You may be onto something, Mother," Paul brushed his chin with his hand. He quickly categorized his married friends, and could only think of one instance where the man loved his wife to distraction and also got along with her parents. The rest had entered into arranged marriages, and all of their affections had dwindled to near nothing.
But such an unconventional step in his life needed more thought. He allowed himself to ponder Emma Carter as he rose and began to pace. She had a lively personality, got along with his mother, spoke intelligently, her dark hair and blue eyes were a beautiful combination of exquisite English beauty.
She'd hesitated at the suggestion they be seen in public together. How could he possibly court her? She'd resist him at every turn. He'd have to offer something so compelling she couldn't say no. He rubbed his chin again, taxing his brain. She'd never entertain the thought of marriage to him. At least not right away. Perhaps he could let his invitations lead her along.
Emma prided herself on her strength of character. She had been the strong one, and held her mother together after Father passed away. She had maintained the bookstore, and managed to earn enough to keep a roof over their heads for three years now. She had accepted her lot in life as a spinster and had been content, if not always happy.
But pride goeth before a fall, and she had fallen, in a hard way, for the Duke of Ravenswood. Certain she was nothing more to him than a simple girl who amused him, she allowed herself a few tears as she prepared for bed. She had to shed them privately, since her mother must never know of her feelings. Even though her mother appeared to have a good time with Paul's mother, she had done nothing since their return from tea except to tell Emma she was wishing for the stars if she thought the Duke would be interested in her. According to her mother, she should cut off all contact with him immediately before their neighbors began to gossip.
Emma listened to her complaints all evening with half an ear. Her heart still tingled from his words, and she allowed herself to remember every word, every gaze, and every smile from the day. How he remembered exactly how she preferred her tea, how he noticed the ink on her fingers and teased her about it, how he expressed sincere sympathy about her father's death. Her mother's words drifted around her while her mind rolled out the memory of the day.
Emma never expected to see him again. They were brushing past each other on the road of life. He was headed in one direction, she the other. She'd have to bundle her heart away, along with each memory she had of Paul, for those long winter nights ahead, when she'd try to stay warm with her thoughts of a love that could never be. And live alone, with only her mother for company. Although she knew wha
t her life had in store, she could help but entertain a dream of marriage to a man who seemed to accept her idiosyncrasies. She prayed for guidance before falling asleep. Getting over Paul was not going to be easy, so she put her trust in God's wisdom and not her own limited understanding.
The next few days, she roamed the aisles of the bookstore, duster in hand and a pinafore apron over her dress, unloading a shelf at a time, cleaning every inch of space. Busywork kept her focused at a time when she was decidedly unfocused. The few customers who wandered in were almost an interruption. But she smiled, offered help and reading suggestions, and totaled up the orders.
Still no Paul.
6
On her fifth day of solitude, the shop sparkled from her labors, and she had run out of things to dust and polish. There was nothing left to do except to shelve some books customers had pulled out and then decided against. Emma sighed softly. Such is the life of a bookstore owner. She should be grateful she at least had a shop with a good reputation. Her father hadn't left them entirely destitute. She already had made it halfway to the magic number of twenty books sold each month, and the store's bank account was a bit plumper than it had ever been. Even though her situation was better than it had been in a long time, she couldn't shake her melancholy.
She lowered her head into her hands, fighting against tears. What would people say if they wandered into the shop, only to find the owner crying about her lot in life? They'd run in the opposite direction, no doubt. She had to be strong, and support both herself and her mother. Lifting her head, she wiped away any trace of tears and set about replacing the books that had been left on the counter.
A tinkle of the shop's bell attached to the door announced the arrival of a new customer. Emma pasted a smile on her face before she pivoted and faced the person who had entered. Her breath caught in her throat when she recognized her new patron. It was the Duke! Her knees threatened to buckle, so she leaned up against the bookshelf and stared at him.
"Your Grace," Emma whispered.
He came forward and took her hand in his. Shots of current ran up her arm at the contact, and she quit breathing altogether. Her stomach began fluttering when, instead of relinquishing his hold on her, he came closer. The breath she'd been holding whooshed out of her.
"Hello, Miss Carter," his deep voice washed over her like a caress.
"You've returned," Emma stated the obvious in a weak voice. "Why?"
"Because I realized I'd forgotten something." He continued to stare at her.
"I can't imagine what that might be." Emma's gaze darted around the room. "I've just spent five days cleaning everything in the shop and found nothing unusual."
"I didn't say I left anything behind, only that I'd forgotten something." His smile lit up his face, exposing his dimples and an errant lock of his brown hair cascaded over his forehead. Emma lifted the hand he wasn't holding to brush his hair back before she realized her intent, and lowered it again. Embarrassed, she quickly looked down, but didn't draw back her hand from his hold.
Paul took a deep breath before he spoke again. He needed to get this right. "You asked me once how it was I remained single, and I brushed off the question."
"You don't owe me an explanation," Emma's gaze came back to him, and she narrowed her eyes, studying him intently.
"I believe I do. I was once engaged, to a lovely, but somewhat impulsive, young lady named Margaret. We were out walking one winter's day, and she ran ahead of me onto an ice-covered lake. I urged her not to head in that direction, since I couldn't follow her. She knew I feared the water, but laughed and ran on ahead. The ice wasn't thick enough to hold her weight, and she fell in." He stopped, took another deep breath, and ran a hand over his eyes.
"And you couldn't save her," Emma finished for him.
Paul closed his eyes, as visions of his nightmare threatened to overtake him again. When he opened them, Emma stood in the sunlight, holding his hand. The nightmare abated, finally. His future was in front of him.
"No, I couldn't." He shook his head. "Ever since, I've tried to assuage my guilt by associating with women who haven't had the best reputations. It's all I thought I was worthy of, since the finest woman I'd ever met I let slip beneath the ice."
Emma's hand raised as she gave in to her impulse and brushed back a lock of his hair. "I'm so sorry for your loss. It must have devastated you. But why are you telling me this?"
"Because it's time to put the nightmare in its place." Paul smiled slightly. "My mother enjoyed you and your mother's company quite a bit the other day. She told me I'd suffered long enough for Margaret's death, and I should get on with life, while there was still time for her to enjoy her grandchildren."
He could hear the sharp intake of Emma's breath, and her hold on his hand tightened as she spoke. "I'll ask again. Why are you telling me this? I am not a member of your class, and although my reputation may be solid, I'm hardly worthy of your time."
Paul finally relinquished his hold on her hand, only to pull some tickets from his pocket. "Well, I disagree with your assessment of your merits. Mother and I would like to invite you and your mother to come with us on an outing. We'll see where it leads from there." He handed her the tickets.
"The opera? We're going to the opera?" Her eyes grew large as she stared at the tickets.
"Not just any opera. Note which performance we'll be attending." He ran a finger under the title. "The Marriage of Figaro. Maybe we'll get some ideas on where to go next."
Emma began to shake, and he wrapped her in an embrace. "Just say yes to the opera for now. That's all I want. And a kiss, if you're so inclined."
"Yes to the opera," she whispered. "And yes." She raised her face to him and stood on her tiptoes. His gaze fell to her mouth. He lowered his mouth to hers, and a feeling of warmth and rightness surrounded him. Paul and Emma had finally found contentment.
THE END
Part XII
A Duke’s Heart for Christmas
By Caroline Johnson
1
July 2, 1814
Eleanor Chatham sat on the wooden pew of the church and tried to concentrate on the sermon. Despite her best efforts, her thoughts drifted to other more tempting subjects. She knew she should feel ashamed, but she was already familiar with the sermon. This morning marked the third time she heard it all the way through, in its entirety. Her father, the Vicar of Lansdowne, had been rehearsing it all week.
In truth, her thoughts were drifting to the invitation to the Summer ball that her family had only just received yesterday afternoon in the post. Eleanor could hardly contain her excitement. Music and dancing brought joy to her heart. Secretly, she also hoped that Mr. Charles Selkirk would finally propose at the ball.
Of course, she knew that was a silly thought, but still, a girl could wish. She smiled as her thoughts turned to Charles. He was so handsome, his dark hair fell into soft waves that framed his masculine face, and his eyes were riveting. She sighed thinking about his steel gray eyes. Lost in her daydreams, she hardly noticed the jab at her side.
Her slightly younger sister, Emma, had elbowed her. Eleanor turned to her sister and raised her eyebrows to question Emma’s actions, but realized that everyone was standing for a hymn. Eleanor quickly stood up. Emma had the hymnal open to the right page and thrust the book in front of her sister. Eleanor could not believe how distracted she was today at church, but the thought of Charles and ball wouldn’t leave her mind.
The congregation sat down and Eleanor’s father gave the final prayer. At the last amen, Emma was overcome with curiosity.
“Eleanor, I have never seen you in such a state, what is the matter?” whispered Emma.
“I am feeling all right; I just was not paying attention,” Eleanor answered in a quiet tone.
“I could see that. You know we have a standard to uphold, especially you.”
“I know, Emma, I cannot account for my behavior this morning. It’s that invitation from yesterday; it has me quite distracted
.”
“The Summer ball? I must admit I can think of little else either. I suppose you did have a valid reason this morning,” replied Emma.
Eleanor was often struck by how Emma always said just the right thing and always acted responsibly. She was younger than Eleanor, but she managed to act years older. Eleanor walked out of the church with Emma and was followed by her brother, her other younger sister, and her mother.
The stone church with its high ceilings was cool and dark compared to the bright sunshine and warm temperature in the church garden. Eleanor was enjoying a glass of lemonade under the shade of an ancient oak tree. She enjoyed the receptions held every Sunday in the garden. The food was always delicious, and she had at least an hour of uninterrupted time spent in the company of Charles.
“Would you like to RSVP, or should I wait for your family’s official reply?” asked Charles as he strode confidently towards Eleanor.
“You are bold; you know I will be there. How could I miss such a grand affair? I may even meet a duke or baron to marry,” She teased.
“I highly doubt that any such noble gentlemen will be attendance at our little party. You may have to content yourself with my company.”
“Oh dear, how will I manage?” she answered in mock indignation.
“Very well, I say. I am the most eligible gentleman in all of Lansdowne,” he boasted.
“I suppose you are right, Mr. Selkirk. You are the son of the highest-ranking member of our society. However, you do face a little competition.”
“Competition? Who can match my handsome features and humble charms?” he said in his loftiest tone.
“Mr. Selkirk, you are a scoundrel. As the eldest daughter of the Vicar, I should pay heed to being seen with you,” she answered as haughty as she could without laughing.
