‘We’re still friends,’ he reassured her. ‘Nothing’s changed. I just need some space. I can’t hold myself in check like you. Do you understand?’
He watched her turn back to the house, wondering all the while if he’d done the right thing by holding back. Maybe if he had kissed her, things would have somehow worked out.
Only when she’d become a mere speck on the horizon did he turn towards the old stable block. Within the squat stone structure the temperature dropped enough to make him quiver over the difference. Darleston adjusted his coat. He was in an antechamber that led to a much larger room. Most of the light in the building came from stubby candles glowing inside open-topped glass jars. While the building no longer housed any horses, the scent of saddle soap remained to underscore the whiff of cheap tallow and sweat.
‘Hey, there, you’ve made it,’ Harry Quernow hollered through the wedged-open door into the arena beyond. Amelia too put her head around the door. He cast a greeting to her as he stepped through into the second room. This was clearly the space the horse stalls had once occupied. The walls still bore the scars from where the woodwork had been ripped out to make room for the boxing ring, although here and there saddle blocks remained as chairs for the houseguests.
The gnarly figure of Jack the Lamp occupied the nearside of the roped area, squared up against Darleston’s twin. He cast his twin only the briefest of glances to make sure he wasn’t faring too badly.
Lyle soon sidled over to him. ‘Given up?’ He’d told Lyle of his intention to spend the day getting to know his wife.
‘No, it was just getting a little uncomfortable.’ He left Lyle to interpret that in whatever way he chose. ‘How has your mission fared?’
Lyle cast a glance in the direction of his sister-in-law. ‘It’s been tiresome. She’s been all eyes for the fighters and not said a word to any of the men besides a few things regarding tactics. I’m not sure what Emma’s worried about. That, and, in all honesty, what is there to fret over? It would do her well to marry. It may as well be to someone she likes.’
‘Aye, I agree with you on that. However, Emma seemed more concerned with the possibility of Amelia compromising herself and thus being unable to wed.’
A brisk shake of his head set Lyle’s long hair falling forward over his face. ‘With whom exactly? For God’s sake, Robert, they’re hardly notorious delinquents. Three of them are married and I trust have more sense. Aiken’s besotted with the Walsh girl and Johnny there –’ he nodded at Bathhouse ‘– he’s not going to do anything. He turns into a stammering buffoon if she so much as looks at him. Let’s be honest, the only real concern here is over your brother. Quernow’s not going to risk his position.’
Darleston cast his gaze over the assembled men, focusing last on Hill’s secretary. A year ago, Quernow had been only weeks away from the debtors’ prison. ‘Are you saying I should have a word with Ned?’
‘Would it do any good?’
‘It’s never influenced him before, leastways not for the better. It might just draw attention to her. He seems suitably focused elsewhere at present.’
‘Aye, he’s taking his role as trainer seriously, I’ll give him that. Do you want to stop and talk to him, or shall we head back?’
Darleston shrugged. He had nothing important to share with his brother, but he understood code for ‘I want to know what you’ve been doing with my wife’ well enough.
‘Well, if you’re sure Amelia’s safe?’
‘I think Hill’s perfectly capable of watching her. He’s not as doddering as he likes to make out, and I think he knows her well enough.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘So, there are to be five other guests arriving for the fight on Thursday.’
Five more reasons to fret. Emma remained focused upon her reflection in the mirror. Turning her head towards Amelia would only encourage her sister’s interest in their new guests when the ones they had were concern enough. Not that any of the gentlemen had behaved at all disreputably; rather Amelia’s desire for attention grew increasingly blatant.
‘I overheard father talking to Beattie. You should have heard her complaining. Apparently Lord Darleston made off with a whole pot of one of her best preserves and there are simply not enough stocks to accommodate so many new guests for so long. Of course she’s lying; she’s been bottling every blackberry, mushroom and cat’s whisker she can lay her hands on since before I was born.’
Emma slapped down the perfume bottle she held. ‘Don’t speak ill of her.’ Beattie had put food on the table for them when they might otherwise have starved. She understood how rapidly fortunes turned and might do so again. Her housekeeping wisdom was not to be mocked; in fact, Amelia would do well to learn from it. Rather than lecture, she turned her vexation to the topic they’d been avoiding ever since Amelia returned. ‘You ought not to have gone with the menfolk today,’ Emma snapped.
Amelia slunk over the threshold with a grin upon her face. She came to stand beside the dressing table, where her fingertips left imprints in the loose layer of powder that coated that end of the glass surface. ‘What would you rather have had me do, sister dear?’ A deep-woven thread of laughter belied the contrition on her face. ‘You were abed. Surely it would have been even worse if I’d remained here – alone with Lord Darleston. Heaven knows what sort of naughtiness I might have got up to.’ Her po-face fractured into a smile.
Emma scowled, unable to dispute the reasoning. She could not even claim Darleston would have maintained a decorous distance, because look what he’d enticed her into – running her hands all over his body, as though he were simply a pet or a luxurious shawl, or she some cheap harlot. What’s more, Amelia would not have been nearly so timid. God help them, she needed to ensure such an opportunity didn’t arise. Not that she believed Darleston’s interest extended to her sister, but how could one really tell? She knew enough of him now to know that licentious, perverse and many of the other adjectives he’d collected were perfectly accurate. The other gentlemen could no doubt boast epithets just as disquieting.
‘You must have thoroughly bored him, for he joined us at the Cottage soon enough,’ Amelia pressed.
Amelia had changed. Over the last few days she’d grown sharper and more direct, not that she hadn’t always been tactless. There was a difference in the way she held herself too, more upright, which somehow added to her grace.
‘Oh, Emma! ’Tis no wonder Lyle chooses other company when you scowl so.’
Emma turned sharply to look up at her sister. What did she know? Did she indeed know anything? It would do her no good to press or even address the matter. ‘You need to wear a fichu with that,’ Emma snapped instead. And she needed to keep a closer eye upon Amelia’s dressmaker the next time she visited. The swooping neckline descended far too low. The dress was one of the collection Amelia had had made in anticipation of the London season: an ivory affair with bronze and russet detailing. Additionally, her maid had arranged her hair so that it fell in tumbling curls on either side of her face and the ends lay enticingly upon the upper curve of her breasts, which bore evidence of powder and rouge.
Amelia continued to smile. ‘Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. I don’t wish to have a frilly oversized kerchief around my neck, scratching my skin and leaving me all blotchy. I’m not showing off anything God didn’t intend me to display.’
‘I can almost see your nipples.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Emma. There’s plenty of whalebone in place between me and disgrace, and it’s not as if I’m about to start picking pins up off the floor, so nothing is likely to fall out.’
Emma stood. ‘You … you …’ Somehow, while always being wilful and stubborn, Amelia had still shown a degree of respect for her elders. That had gone now, lost behind a facetious grin. ‘Go and get changed.’
Amelia clamped one hand to her hip. ‘I shan’t,’ she said with an uncharacteristic swagger. ‘You are not my mother to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. You’re not
even Aunt Maude, who at least shows some affection whilst ordering me about.’
‘You will do as you are bid.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ Amelia stepped back away from her. ‘Exactly how are you going to make me do your bidding? Will you drag me to my room and strip me down to my shift, dear sister?’ She waited, body tensed, ready to fly if Emma took the bait.
They both knew she wouldn’t. Never once had they embraced or held hands or shared any physical contact as sisters ought to have done.
Amelia sucked in a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to be like you,’ she blurted. ‘All stuffy and countrified and aloof. We’re not alike, Emma. We’ve never been alike. I want their attention. I like to be touched.’ A sly gleam lit her eyes as she hissed the last part. ‘I won’t sit idly by while you and Aunt Maude find some horrid old miser to wed me to. I want to live. Do you hear me? I want to live, and I want to know affection and pleasure.’ She turned her back on Emma and strode purposefully out of the room. ‘And I will.’
‘Wait,’ Emma demanded. ‘Come back.’ She followed her sister onto the landing. Amelia had already reached the head of the stairs. She cast Emma a stony glance, and then swept down to the lower level as proud as a duchess.
For several moments, Emma remained frozen, one hand closed fast around the banister. Her hair lay free around her shoulders. There were no shoes upon her feet. She couldn’t be seen downstairs like this. And what would she do even if she gave chase? They could not shout at one another like fishwives while their guests looked on. Furthermore, in any row their father could be relied upon to take Amelia’s side. He never saw any wrong in his youngest child. Emma had done her best with her sister, but she’d never wanted to play mother. The supposed rewards never seemed to outweigh the heartbreak. Fifteen children, and only she and Amelia survived.
‘I’m just trying to protect you,’ she whispered. If only Amelia would see that. When the right man came along, then she would do anything and everything to help.
‘Problem?’
Emma snapped to attention. Her hands fell to her sides. Darleston stood only a few feet away. He had dressed in the exquisite baroque coat that had so enchanted her on the night of his arrival. It seemed even more magnificent now, the candlelight catching the pattern woven into the fabric. Emma stared at him. ‘No … I mean … no, there’s no problem.’ She crossed back into her chamber, only to find Darleston at her heels when she turned to close the door. ‘What is it?’
‘Let me help you.’ He pushed his way inside, and then pressed the door to behind them. ‘Problems with Amelia?’
‘It’s nothing. She’s at an awkward age. And bitter because we are here rather than in town where she could participate in the season.’
‘She’s unlikely to find such attentive company in town.’
‘Amelia doesn’t see it that way. She believes we are depriving her. She thinks that I’m cruel because I seek to curtail her involvement with the gentlemen. I only mean to keep her safe.’
‘Let her be, Emma. Allow her to make her own mistakes. We all must.’
Emma stubbornly shook her head. ‘I can’t do that to my only sister. I do want her to be happy.’
‘You can’t make people happy. That’s something they have to discover for themselves. And how do you expect to make her happy when you’re not yourself?’
‘I’m … My God, Darleston, you can’t be in here.’ How had she grown so used to his company that she’d barely noticed his invasion of her room?
He gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘I was in here last night for long enough.’
‘I’m dressing.’
‘And then you were undressing.’ He raised his hand as if to touch her. Emma scuttled away, returning to her former position before the mirror. ‘We need to talk, you and I.’
‘What about?’ Emma reached out to take her hairbrush, only for Darleston’s hand to close around the shaft first.
‘Allow me.’
No one had combed her hair since Beatrice died, nigh on twenty years ago. The memory of Bea’s squeals of laughter and the sensation of her chubby little hands tugging at the knots lent additional steel to her already straight back. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t sit still and allow him to brush.
Emma remained frozen in the chair watching him warily. Darleston stood so close she could hear his breathing. If she moved, she would have to squeeze against him in order to escape. She’d gathered all her strength in order to touch him this morning, but couldn’t find the same resolve to push him away now.
‘Relax, Emma. Push your hair back over your shoulders.’
For some inexplicable reason she complied. Why could he make her do these things? Why was she simply prepared to listen and obey?
She closed her eyes in anticipation of the first stroke of the brush, only to snap them open again equally fast. The darkness amplified the unknown and awakened more memories. Better she stay in the here and now than descend into the darkness of her past.
Darleston lifted the first lock of her hair. Slowly, with excruciating care, he pulled the bristles over the length of one entire brown wave. The process was repeated, again and again, with Emma steeling herself against the initial contact each time. Though she had to accept that he kept his word. If his fingers tangled in her hair, it was only momentarily. While she was all too aware of his body, he didn’t crowd her.
‘I’m sorry that I pushed you away earlier,’ he said, voice buttery soft and full of contrition. ‘I didn’t want to do anything that I’d later regret. You have to understand, I haven’t your control, and nothing would please me more right now than to be able to hold you properly.’
Emma gently shook her head. ‘You don’t mean that. I’m sure Lyle’s a much better prospect, even given the unholy complications of the situation. He loves you. He can give you all the affection you want.’
‘Unholy!’ He grinned. ‘Yes, I think the church would agree with you on that. But you are wrong about the rest. Lyle can’t give me everything I want. Although, heaven help him, he’s trying his damnedest.’
Warily, she bowed her head, refusing to meet his mirrored gaze. She wasn’t even sure whether to believe in his interest. ‘I can’t give you anything.’
He bent low so that his mouth drew close to her ear. ‘You’ve already given unimaginable pleasure. Even now …’ Darleston closed his eyes. His smile stretched across his face. ‘I have a fertile imagination, Emma. I can make much of little.’
The simplicity of his words raised extra shivers. Emma hugged herself tight. They were walking a dangerous line together. One she knew she couldn’t cross. He just didn’t understand. She hadn’t chosen to be this way. Life had simply conspired.
She lifted her chin when Darleston resumed brushing again. Despite the soothing, rhythmic rise and fall of his hand she couldn’t entirely shift the tension from her shoulders. Heavens knows what truly lay in Darleston’s heart – he certainly had the reputation of a devil – but what she saw in his reflection was fearful enough.
Darleston was not the sort of man to be denied. Yet he would eventually have to accept that she couldn’t be the woman he wanted.
‘You must know this will never work. This … whatever it is between us.’
‘You say that with such conviction, and yet you’re sitting here allowing me to brush your hair. Has Lyle ever brushed your hair?’
She shook her head, disquieted by the thought. She’d allowed Lyle to touch her only once, when he slipped her wedding band onto her finger. That wasn’t something she could escape. However, she’d turned away when he’d tried to kiss her.
‘Yet,’ Darleston continued, ‘we’ve known each other only a few days now and you’ve allowed me a privilege you deny your husband.’
She had. Somehow Darleston seemed to sneak past all her defences, or perhaps he was simply more belligerent than Lyle. More likely still was the possibility that he was genuinely interested in her.
‘You forced the issue,’ she murmure
d.
‘Hardly.’ A small chuckle escaped his throat. For some reason the sound seemed to warm her. ‘Forceful is something else entirely. I don’t think you’d care for that, though your husband certainly does.’ Darleston came to her side and knelt. He set the brush upon the table top. Emma stared at his fingertips curled around the lip of the table. ‘What is it you fear so much, Emma? What is it that makes you so resistant to another person’s touch? Something made you this way, did it not?’
He looked up at her with his smoky-grey eyes and she seemed to fall into his gaze.
Bodies. That’s where the fear, the desire for numbness came from.
Bodies pressed close, squirming against her, holding her captive. Frozen limbs locked tight, forever curled around her flesh. Hair plastered to her clammy body. Short fine blond strands and thick, long darker ones, hair that wasn’t hers, but nevertheless covered her, strangled her.
Emma bolted out of her chair, knocking the hairbrush from the dressing table so that it skittered across the carpet and landed with a clang against the coal bucket. She saw Darleston move – just a rising grey blur in the mirror – and turned to face him. He had his arms outstretched, ready to hold her, to offer comfort. ‘Please don’t.’ Emma raised her palms to ward him off, and her fingertips made glancing contact with his chest. The effect was like a scald. She pulled back, whimpering in pain, colliding with the vanity, which she then tried to clutch, but her palms slid over the powder-covered glass and prevented her gaining a purchase.
Darleston slowly backed off, two steps then a few more, until he reached the bed and sat down. His head drooped a little, but he continued to watch her.
‘We weren’t always wealthy,’ Emma gasped. She had to give him some sort of explanation for her behaviour.
Life had become easier the older she’d become, but the memories remained of going to bed with her stomach cramped from hunger, and of sleeping squashed together in one bed with her siblings because that was their only source of heat.
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