by Sharon Sobel
“But I should like some lemonade,” Emma said when the man left the library.
“This stuff is not for you, little girl,” Nathaniel said, and reached for the glass.
Emma’s hand, soft and warm, closed over his. “I am not a little girl, and I have shared a glass with you before.”
She was not, and indeed, they had.
“Take it easy. Try just a taste of it,” he said as they raised the glass to her lips. She seemed to do no more than wet her lips, when she started to cough and fan her face with a frantic hand. The potent liquid splashed onto both their hands and he gently set the glass down. Then, with some effort, he stood and patted her on her back until she regained her breath.
“I take it you somehow managed to get to the advanced age of twenty nine without experiencing the ambrosia of the Roman gods?” he asked her, after several moments had passed.
“Thank you for reminding me of my encroaching infirmity. But this drink does a great deal to explain some of the more naughty behavior in their pantheon. It must be pure alcohol?”
Nathaniel answered by downing half of what remained in the glass. “In Southern Italy, babies sip this with their porridge.”
Whether consciously or not, Emma put her damp finger in her mouth and gently sucked on it. She was definitely not a little girl if she had any idea what effect this had on him. He cleared his throat.
“Ah, so perhaps it doesn’t quite agree with you either,” she said.
He was still standing above her, and reached down to take her hand. “No, I believe it is too bitter,” he said, and kissed her finger. “Now, that is an improvement.”
Emma pulled her hand away, and stood to face him.
“What are you doing, Nathaniel?” she asked softly.
“For once, I am acting on my instincts. And it is not such a big deal. After all, you have already reminded me that we used to share a drinking glass.”
She waved her fingers at him. “This is not a drinking glass. And even were it so, one does not kiss a glass.”
“You are quite right. I suppose there are some things you can teach me after all,” he said, and then pulled her into his arms and kissed her most improperly on her lips.
Why had he sought comfort in limoncello when Emma Partrick was a guest under the same roof? The taste of her lips, the scent of her hair, the way she clung to him, was pure intoxication. She had been only a little thing when he last knew her, but now she seemed the perfect height to fit along the lines of his body. With what little sense was left to him in these moments, he hoped his leg would not betray him and cause him to stumble as she pressed against him.
Emma retained at least as much sense. She suddenly leaned back, though she still clung to his arms, and asked, “Should you be standing like this?”
“Do you prefer to lie down on the chaise? I think we’ll both find it infinitely preferable,” he said.
She released him. “I daresay we would under ordinary circumstances, but that is hardly the case now.”
“No, it is not. In fact, everything feels rather extraordinary at the moment.”
He caught just a glimmer of a smile before it was replaced by something that was either concern or even sadness.
“Then let us savor this moment, dear friend, for it shall be something to hold in memory,” Emma said, as she straightened the lace at her breast and patted down her wrinkled sleeves.
“Why are you so anxious to break this off, Emma? We would hardly embarrass ourselves if someone walked in, for we are of an age to do as we like. We are no longer children experimenting with the science of kissing behind the stable.”
“I do not recall we ever did such a thing.”
“Then either my memory, or my fondest fantasies, are more active than yours. But no matter; what of the here and now?”
“It is only hours before Christmas Eve, and there is much to prepare. Uncle Michael—for I feel I may call him so under the circumstances—already gave over much responsibility to my aunt, and now I understand why that is so. I need to help her in this, as in all things,” she said.
There was the cause of her concern.
“And there is something greater, and less likely to end happily.” She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “You are somewhat removed from London gossips, so you may not be aware of my dreadful reputation. I am known to some as the Black Widow.”
There was the cause of her sadness.
Impossibly, he laughed. Truly, it was more at himself than her words, for had he not been prompted to make haste for Pencliff by Peter’s warning? It seemed so absurd now, for whatever he remembered of Emma Partrick was very much improved by what they just shared. Emma, however, did not think so. She turned on her heel, and would have made a hasty departure, but that her lovely gown caught on the outstretched finger of a china sea nymph.
“Wait, please,” he said through his laughter. “My uncle is quite fond of this statue, though goodness knows why.” For good measure, he held Emma at her waist while he unhooked her. And then drew her closer when she was released.
“What is this about?” he asked against her hair. “Have you been betrothed so many times the gossips cannot resist you? Are you secretly married?”
“I have never been married, Nathaniel, as you know perfectly well. I have never even . . .” Her voice dropped off when he moved his lips down her forehead to her nose.
“Never even what?” he asked.
She broke apart from him, and looked as if she were about to admit to some confession before changing her mind.
“It will not do. I love your Uncle Michael as if he is already my own, and you are soon to be my cousin.”
“I believe the relationship can bear some degree of closeness between us,” he said, suddenly realizing he wished to be a great deal more to her than cousin.
“I am not sure it can and I will not risk harming you. I have never believed that I was anything but the victim of very bad luck, but it turns out my aunt is somewhat more cautious about my prospects. I must respect her. And I do know if something happened to you, your uncle will be inconsolable. My aunt will take to her room and cry out her despair for weeks and weeks. And besides,” she said as she pulled out of his embrace and backed away from him, “I could not endure the thought of you in any more pain and knowing I caused it.”
He could not laugh off something that so clearly plagued her. Though the tongues of the gossips wagged for malicious pleasure and a source of amusement, they somehow convinced the object of their whispering that they had the right of it. It had been many months since Nathaniel Evander thought of anyone but himself with any degree of pity, but now he recognized something as startling as the fact he desired her.
Emma Partrick was as damaged, in her own way, as was he.
AS EMMA DASHED up the grand staircase of Pencliff she nearly bumped into her aunt coming down.
“Oh! I am so glad to find you,” her aunt said. “No one knew where you had gone. I hoped to have your help to add some greenery to the library, to liven things up.”
Emma thought things in the library were already quite lively, but this was not the moment to say so. “Why bother with the library, Aunt Daisy, when there are so few people who would use it? I am sure it does not matter to Nathaniel if he ruminates over his John Donne beneath a bower of holly.”
Aunt Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Nathaniel, is it? I suppose one cannot go on calling him Nate forever, as he is no longer a boy. I doubt your Nathaniel would notice, but as Lord Michael intends to serve coffee in the library this evening, the room deserves our attention. It is one of the few rooms in this great cave of a house that holds the heat well, and Lord Michael is concerned for the comfort of all his guests.” She put a cool hand on Emma’s cheek. “Dear girl, you are burning up! Do you feel feverish?”
Emma was glad sh
e could tell her aunt the truth in this. “I have come from the library and it is, indeed, the warmest room in Pencliff.”
“Just the same, you ought to rest before the festivities this evening. Do not worry about my projects, as I am sure I have it all in hand.”
“I am sure you do, Aunt Daisy,” Emma said, and waved her off. Aunt Daisy always had everything in hand and must already contemplate a future that involved renovating Lord Michael’s great cave into compliance with her vision of perfection. The man must have offered it as an additional nugget in his courtship. “And I believe I shall rest for a few hours.”
But even before she reached her room, Emma knew rest was impossible. How could she idle away the afternoon when such a burden was upon her? Where she’d expected a cripple, she found a man who was both bigger and stronger than she. When she would have resumed an old friendship, so long interrupted, she instead found a sudden attraction, capable of becoming so much more. And while she hoped to help a man heal, she now threatened to do him harm.
She had loved before, with disastrous results. She would not love Nathaniel Evander. Even more important, he could not love her.
As she kneeled before her trunk and opened it to retrieve the Christmas presents she’d already wrapped, she wryly considered how her gift to him could happily turn him away from her forever. She’d spent weeks crocheting a cheerful lap robe for him, expecting him to find it very useful as he sat confined to a chair. Now, she knew she’d miscalculated the extent of his injuries or Lord Michael’s tale of his nephew’s plight. For him, her new uncle, she’d crocheted a scarf in the same bright yarns, which took her less than half the time. In the rush and excitement to leave London, she’d yet managed to find time to paint little watercolor scenes on plain paper and to wrap her gifts with it. Foolishly, she’d imagined Nathaniel would never again walk through Hyde Park or along Jermyn Street, and she’d wished to entertain him with her city views.
She had no idea what he would make of them now, and could only hope he would tear open the wrapping, crumble it all into a ball, and toss the whole thing into the fire. When he realized what she’d made for him, he might toss that into the fire as well.
But she knew he would not, for that was not in his character, either then or now.
Emma placed her carefully wrapped offerings on a table near the door, and loosened her gown as she walked towards the comfort the large bed promised. Outside, it had started to snow again, but here she was warm and protected. She lay down in the center of the bed, against the overstuffed pillows and on the beautifully brocaded counterpane, and attempted to think of anything but Nathaniel.
But that was impossible. She could think of nothing else but Nathaniel—the way his arms felt around her, the warm pressure of his lips on hers, and how close she came to being thoroughly compromised. And all that in a matter of moments. Where she thought to have a discussion with him as they perused an atlas together, instead he became her lover, the face to a passionate presence in her spinster’s dreams. She had not asked for this and told herself she did not desire it. But she did not pull away from him when he embraced her and gave him nearly as much as he gave her.
The fire in the room nearly burned itself out, but Emma thought she might incinerate where she was.
Why had Nathaniel never married? Heir to an earl, adventurous, intelligent, and wonderfully handsome, he surely was the object of a good many matchmaker’s plans, and young women’s fancy. She liked him well enough when they were children and tossed together by their aunt and uncle.
No, she did not merely like him then. If she was honest with herself, she must admit that she loved him then, as only a small girl could love, adore, and idolize an older boy who had the dubious good sense to merely tolerate her. Even then, he spoke of travels, and treasures to be discovered. And even then she wished to be drawn into his circle. As a ten-year–old, she was content to follow him about town, listening to his explanations about every tree and insect they discovered. Now, she just wanted to be drawn into his arms, and not talk about anything at all.
She must escape his company. But anything she might contrive, including feigning illness, would put a damper on Aunt Daisy’s happiness, so long delayed. So instead she must be vigilant, and not allow her passions to rule over her good sense.
THE SNOW STARTED to fall heavily, and Lord Michael voiced concerns that several of his guests would not venture out on such a night. The vicar, however, had arrived early in the day and had been readying Pencliff’s private chapel for hours.
Emma walked behind her aunt and Lord Michael as they made their way to the ancient sanctuary through a labyrinth of hallways. It was easier to arrive at the chapel directly from the outdoors, as most of the guests would do. But the advantage of a shorter walk was diminished by the deepness of the snow, and Lord Michael seemed to enjoy introducing her and Aunt Daisy to all his many dead relatives, whose portraits hung upon the walls.
To Emma, they were not all that interesting, unless she was able to discern an arched brow or Roman nose that reminded her of Nathaniel. But then, as they continued down the hall, she considered how many ancestors there were and how few of their descendents remained. There was the one very old aunt, the sister of Lord Michael’s father. Lord Michael’s younger brother died many years before, leaving one son. And that was Nathaniel, who was now like a son to his uncle, but who might have died ignominiously under a pile of rubble in Italy. There was no one else.
But where was Nathaniel tonight? Did he already regret their misdeeds of the afternoon? Or was he not a religious man and unwilling to attend services even on Christmas Eve? Was he avoiding her or a lengthy sermon?
He chose to avoid neither, apparently. When they arrived at the chapel, Emma saw Nathaniel’s broad back and dark hair above the boxed pew reserved for the family. With sudden realization, she knew instinctively that he had come ahead of them to avoid being pitied, as he would should he have been seen slowly making his way on the long march to the chapel. And to give reason to his earlier arrival, he now seemed very interested in the preparations on the altar. He scarcely acknowledged her as she stepped over his cane to take a seat on the far end of the box so that she and Nathaniel framed her aunt and his uncle.
Behind them, and despite the snow, others silently joined them. And in the stillness of one of the longest nights of the year, the ancient chapel witnessed yet another celebration of life, and light, and love.
NATHANIEL, WHO knew no family other than Grand Aunt Cora and his uncle Michael, sat in Pencliff’s massive dining hall and considered this Christmas Eve as extraordinary a discovery as any he’d ever made on distant shores. They’d often welcomed guests, and Lady Westbrook and her little niece were always among the numbers. But that was many years ago, and in the intervening years he did not always manage to join his uncle, nor did he ever remember so many celebrants gathered under Pencliff’s roof.
And then he never remembered his uncle so happy. Why did he not ask the widow for her hand when they both were young? Then Nathaniel might have had cousins, including one already very devoted female. He glanced across the table at Emma’s face, gently lit in the candlelight, and her delicate hand settled on her goblet. He gazed on her a moment longer than he intended and noticed the wine in her glass shifting, as if her hand was not quite as steady as the rest of her. Though she must have known he studied her, she refused to meet his eyes.
No, he would not want her as a cousin. But he very much wanted her.
“Will you dance at your uncle’s ball, Mr. Evander?” asked the young lady at his side. She was the vicar’s cousin and a lady of indeterminate age. He was somewhat unpracticed in the art of flirtation, but he suspected she was fishing for a partner.
“I would love nothing more than to join you for a reel, Miss Cartwell” he said gallantly, but regretted that with those careless words he raised the poor lady’s hopes. “Howev
er, you may find me a very poor partner. I was never a very fine dancer, and recent circumstances have not improved my skills.”
She blushed a fierce and unflattering red, which he supposed had to do with the indelicacy of referring to his injury. It was a sad fact of his life, however, and stumbling through country dances was the least of his new concessions.
“But I am sure you will find several excellent partners,” he added, reassuringly. He forked a slice of lamb and it seemed unusually tender, making him wonder if Uncle Michael had imported his London cook for the season. After he sampled it he was convinced that this could not be the workmanship of Mrs. Corcoran, Pencliff’s resident fire-starter. The meat was not at all charred. It was wonderful, in fact.
“This house has not seen a ball in decades,” said Uncle Michael, as he raised his goblet. “Let us welcome in the New Year with our resolve to start the year fresh, with all our old pages torn from our books. A new chapter begins on January first!”
Nathaniel looked around the table and saw that some of the guests were confused by the metaphor. Undoubtedly he would have to barricade the library before Lady Tregaris started ripping apart the famed Leonardo codex. But tonight the room would have to endure the whole company, for coffee and hot chocolate was to be set under a spray of mistletoe. The thought did not make him happy, but Pencliff was not his. And for the first time in many years, it would soon have a mistress.
Therein was the difference in this great house, this dinner, this Christmas, he realized. A couple of bachelors could subsist very comfortably with hired cooks and servants and a library full of books. Uncle Michael and he enjoyed each other’s company and managed very well. But now there were warm coals in every fireplace, a temperamental little partridge that would not stay near the quince tree that had been brought for him, the scent of fresh greenery in every room, and people laughing and talking throughout. Pencliff was a home, and the great difference was due to the elegant lady who sat at the foot of Uncle Michael’s table.
“Shall we let the gentleman retire to the game room, ladies?” she asked, and actually winked at his uncle. Nathaniel looked around and realized everyone was quite finished with their dinner, while he had not yet touched his haricots vert. Across the table Emma watched him, and he guessed she understood his surprise.
