It seemed outrageous he’d at no point demanded his castle interior be painted that same blue, and it seemed reprehensible he’d not sent his valet to the haberdashery to demand only blue fabric in the future.
But of course, no blue could ever hope to match the magnificence of her eyes.
“You’re quiet,” she said.
“Am I?”
“Have I offended you?” She frowned. “Don’t answer that. Of course I have. I-I should never have broken into your room or stolen your horse or ruined your music performance with my–er–” Her voice wobbled, and it was all he could do to not swing her into his arms.
She was light. So tiny and slim. He could hold her easily, embrace her with such speed, and yet...
I can’t. I mustn’t.
Rules were things Hugh excelled at following. In fact, he even excelled at telling other people what the rules were.
Rules meant the world remained orderly, predictable.
Rules were brilliant.
Hugh was quite certain there was a rule against kissing one’s guest, even though her chaperone was nowhere in sight.
And yet...
Blast it.
He drew her nearer him, inhaling her sweet scent and memorizing the shape of her body.
Her eyes widened.
“I’d like to kiss you,” he murmured.
“Oh?” Her eyes seemed to widen even further.
“I’d very much like to kiss you,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“That sounds nice,” she said.
If she thought it sounded nice, he would show her just how nice it was.
So, he kissed her.
In the next moment he crushed her body to his, feeling, dear Lord, her bosom pressing against his chest.
He wanted to tear off her clothes, to thrust inside her.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he kissed her.
And kissed her.
And kissed her.
Their tongues danced, and then she drew herself away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EMMA RUSHED FROM THE steps of the folly, through the grove of trees, and into the field. Wildflowers clung to the hem of her dress, and she was conscious of her locks spilling from her bun.
He’d kissed her.
He’d truly kissed her.
And now she would need to forget it, as if it were possible to pretend his luscious lips had never touched hers. She’d need to rip the memory from her mind and bury it somewhere in this forest.
Because there was no world in which she could kiss a marquess.
And she was supposed to be working to have Miss Carberry win him. It had been easier when she’d thought him a wealthy man with an abundance of time and a lack of sense.
She hadn’t realized it was lack of time, his commitment to changing people’s lives for the better that had compelled him to do this. If he’d seemed uncaring about falling in love with one person, it hadn’t been because he’d thought more women were better. He’d dreamed of finding a woman who would fit perfectly into all aspects of his life.
Emma wasn’t that woman.
She wasn’t anything close to that woman.
But at least Miss Carberry was kind and she would not hurt him. Too many of the other women, when not in his presence, had seemed happy to belittle others. They’d even spoken poorly of him.
Miss Carberry would be a good wife, she was certain.
Emma would just have to work harder to see the marquess saw that too.
She closed her eyes, but his image still danced in front of her.
She’d seen other handsome men. She wasn’t a foolish schoolgirl. She wasn’t going to imagine this might be her home, this home on this lovely land that resembled the Austrian Empire more than any place she’d ever seen before.
No.
She would never allow herself to do that.
She continued running through the fields until she approached the castle and could distinguish the stones. Then she slowed, even though nothing seemed better than rushing into the house, barreling up the flight of stairs so no other people might enter into conversation with her, and burrowing under the deliciously soft covers.
Emma walked slowly, gliding through the fields. She moved her hand to her hair, ensured that her hastily done hairstyle this morning was not entirely horrific, and pretended to admire the flowers.
Actually, that part did not require much pretense.
The flowers were beautiful, even if all of their carefully groomed charm could not rival the raw beauty of the wildflowers she’d seen in the grove.
“Good morning, Miss Braunschweig,” a voice said.
She turned. “Lady Letitia.”
This time, her hair was even more immaculate than last night.
“You look beautiful,” Emma stammered.
Lady Letitia extended a dainty smile. “Thank you, my dear. I’m so glad you think so. But then I should look beautiful. My lady’s maid worked on this style for an hour and a half this morning.”
“Oh.” Emma blinked.
Lady Letitia leaned closer to her. “I think it is safe to say that we must always be under observation. It was quite improper for him to spy on us last night.”
“I don’t think people traditionally think that viewing people eat is particularly enticing,” Emma said.
“Perhaps you have not observed me,” Lady Letitia said. “I am always enticing. It is one of my top qualities.”
“How splendid,” Emma said weakly.
Lady Letitia sent her a sharp look. “Naturally, I shouldn’t be imparting this valuable information to you. But you’re hardly a competitor, are you?”
Emma stiffened, and Lady Letitia leaned closer. “After all, you should have been sent home last night. We all know that. The only reason you’re here is that you provide some measly amusement for the marquess and his horrid friend.”
Emma grew rigid.
“But perhaps you didn’t realize that. Is that why you’re wandering the estate? Are you seeing if you can find him?” Lady Letitia laughed, but it occurred to Emma that Lady Letitia might have revealed her own plan.
“I didn’t see him,” she lied, confident the marquess would not want anyone to know about their earlier meeting. A man like him wouldn’t want to admit to spending time alone from her, lest some overzealous guardian demand they marry.
If anyone knew about the kiss...
Her heart fluttered again at the memory, and for a brief moment she was in the marquess’s arms again, and everything was good.
“You do have such a funny expression on your face,” Lady Letitia said. “Most curious.”
Emma gritted her teeth together.
She was not going to say anything inflammatory.
“Do enjoy your hunt for the marquess,” Emma said sweetly and marched back to the castle, before Lady Letitia might protest and say she was not actually combing the grounds for any signs of Lord Metcalfe.
Emma swept inside the castle. She marched up the steps of the grand staircase, pounded over the corridor, the force of her steps lessened by the sumptuousness of the oriental carpet on the landing, and entered her room. Both beds were made. No doubt Miss Carberry had gone with her mother to the breakfast room. Emma felt a tinge of disappointment. Even though she wasn’t overly enthusiastic about Miss Carberry’s mother’s propensity to berate, she would have liked some distraction.
Because otherwise she just remembered the feel of the marquess’s hands as he’d pulled her toward him, and she remembered the feel of his lips, of his tongue.
She needed to forget everything.
There was no place for the marquess, even in her daydreams.
She settled down onto her bed, sinking into the springs.
“Hello, Sister.” A voice she recognized startled her, and she jerked her head toward the seating area. There, in an armchair, his booted feet flung over an ottoman, was her brother. He looked rather less polished than normal, and her stomach sank.
“Bertrand?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me so quickly,” he said.
“I just didn’t expect you,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I would pay you a call,” he said.
“That’s nice. Though I share this room with Miss Carberry. I doubt it is appropriate for you to be here.”
“It’s not,” he said. “That’s why I snuck in. Apparently having a house filled with people keeps the servants occupied.”
“You should leave,” Emma said. “I don’t want a lecture on propriety from anyone when you are discovered.”
“Have you been struggling with propriety?” Her brother’s voice was more serious now. It was cold and formal, as if they were not truly related after all.
Emma didn’t respond.
“Is there something you would like to confess?” Bertrand pressed.
“Of course not,” she said quickly. “Everything is fine.”
“I saw you with the marquess,” he said.
“What?” Emma took a step back. “How?”
“With my eyes,” he said, an irritated expression on his face. “I’m certain I told you that you were not competing for the marquess’s hand in marriage. With the distaste you’ve shown for marrying well in the past, I did not think you would have trouble.” He fixed his gaze on hers. “Evidently I was wrong. There is no limit to your incompetence.”
Her back grew more rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I was in the folly,” he said. “And I saw you with him. You were very...intimate.”
Her cheeks heated, as if Bertrand had flung her into the embers, still glowing from when the maid lit them this morning.
“It happened quickly,” she said. “It was unplanned.”
“And yet, you were alone with him. See that this doesn’t happen again. You are supposed to help Miss Carberry, though that may be an impossible task.”
“Impossible is a strong word.”
“It suits one with such a poor grasp of social skills and lack of natural beauty.”
“You need to leave.” She wasn’t going to argue over Miss Carberry’s merits now. She wasn’t going to risk anyone overhearing them.
Bertrand gave a lackadaisical shrug and rose. “Don’t forget that I’m the only person who has ever cared for you. All you need to do is listen to me.”
Emma’s mouth dried.
“Don’t worry,” Bertrand said soothingly. “If you want to ruin this relationship with the Carberry family, I understand.”
She jerked her head toward him.
“Yes,” he said. “You heard me correctly. You’re my sister. I’ve protected you my whole life.” He shrugged. “After all, who looked after you when our dear aunt and uncle died?”
Emma looked down. “So you understand?”
Bertrand nodded. “You’re a woman. Strategy is hardly your strong suit. Probably at the end of this house party you’ll only have enraged Mrs. Carberry when she discovers your flirtations with the marquess. Because believe me, she will discover. You’re not clever enough to hide something like that. Kissing in the open. Disgraceful.”
Emma’s heart moved uncomfortably in her chest.
“Even though I told you to cultivate friendships with the other women, I wouldn’t be surprised if after the end of the house party you inform me that you made no connections, even though you know how exceedingly valuable they are.” Her brother continued to speak in a soothing tone, every now and then flashing her a smug, condescending smile. “You have no respect for everything I do. But do not worry, I took care of it.”
Emma stiffened, and her spine prickled. “What do you mean?”
He beamed and patted his satchel. “I visited some of the other rooms. Quite lovely jewels some people have.”
“You stole?”
“Schatz,” Bertrand said. “How do you think I pay for everything? Would you like me to ring up large debts at shops? I know some people do that—even the regent is known to do that, but I have morals.”
“So you took jewelry belonging to young women?” Emma asked.
“You make it sound so dreadful.” Bertrand rose. “I should leave.”
“No,” Emma said.
“No?” Bertrand blinked. “You’re not supposed to give me orders.”
Emma placed her hands on her waist. “I demand you return the jewels.”
“Nonsense,” Bertrand said. “And you’re not supposed to talk to me like that.”
“Perhaps someone should,” Emma said. “Perhaps your ideas aren’t wonderful. We could have managed in the Austrian Empire. We could even have managed here if you’d taken a job. You could have been a translator.”
“You think translators make money?” Bertrand scoffed.
“You do not deserve these women’s jewels,” Emma said.
“They won’t notice they’re missing,” Bertrand said.
“I doubt that.”
Very rarely were women allowed to inherit property. They weren’t allowed to have much of anything. But if they had jewels that they could sell if necessary, then they had some source of freedom if they needed it in the future.
Emma wasn’t going to casually allow Bertrand to walk away with these women’s valuables.
Bertrand started to laugh. The sound was low. No doubt he was still conscious it would not do to have him discovered.
Emma steeled herself, noting his grasp of his satchel was loose.
She inhaled, grabbed a pillow and flung it in his face.
The satchel dropped, and she grabbed it, ran to the adjoining room, and locked the door quickly. Footsteps pounded toward the door, and she swiftly ran to the door leading to the hallway and locked that door as well.
“Emma!” Bertrand barked. “I need that satchel.”
“You can’t have it,” Emma said. “And you should be quiet. Or do you want to be discovered? With a satchel filled with stolen jewels?”
“Maybe they’ll think it’s your satchel,” Bertrand said.
Emma unbuttoned the satchel and glanced at the contents. “They won’t think I brought a bag filled with men’s attire. Besides, I get along well with the marquess. Remember?”
There was silence on the other side of the door.
“Fine,” Bertrand said. “You win this time. But don’t think I’ll forget this. You better make certain Mrs. Carberry is happy.”
Footsteps left the room, and Emma sank to the floor, shaking.
She’d never spoken to her brother like that.
She’d never dared.
But then, she’d never known he was a thief.
She swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry. Bertrand was correct: she would have to make certain Miss Carberry married the marquess.
Not because it was Bertrand’s desire, and not because it was Mrs. Carberry’s desire, but because Miss Carberry truly was kind and sweet.
And I can never marry him.
She’d known it before of course, but things were rather different after learning of her brother’s lies.
She unpacked the satchel, hoping Mrs. Carberry would not return. She needed to find all the jewels so she could return them.
Her brother had tucked some jewels loosely between some clothes. At least this wasn’t his full wardrobe.
A letter was also tucked inside. The handwriting seemed familiar, and she stilled.
It was her aunt’s writing.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Perhaps she’d been too harsh to Bertrand. Perhaps Bertrand could reform. To think, after all these years, he carried a letter from their long dead aunt.
Emma hadn’t seen her aunt’s handwriting in so many years, but she still remembered it.
She remembered everything.
She remembered her village, and her relatives’ inn. She remembered playing on the mountain in the summer, when wildflowers blanketed the steep slopes.
And she remembered when Bertrand
took her to the capital for the Congress of Vienna. Bertrand had been happy to work as a translator then. His English ability had been his one skill, one he’d made certain she learned.
She’d been so homesick for her village when she’d been in Vienna. Bertrand hadn’t let her leave her room, and he would be gone for long hours.
And then she remembered when Bertrand told her he’d their relatives had both succumbed in a fire, and that they would have to move to Britain.
Her heart panged.
She’d wanted to tell him he’d made everything more difficult than it needed to be. They hadn’t needed to have to feign this life. They could simply have immigrated to England, as so many others did, and looked for employment. When she’d practiced English, preparing for a new life where she wouldn’t be living in a small hamlet, that was what she’d expected.
Yet Bertrand had declared he was a baron.
It was the sort of lie that was difficult to take back.
Bertrand had told her not to worry, that people were always coming from the continent and inflating their titles.
Emma was not so certain.
But there was no one else she could tell. Bertrand was the only person who’d ever looked after her, and he was correct: he’d given her far more than she ever could have expected. Perhaps his morals were lax, and his grasp of ethics poor, but he still loved her. How could she tell him that was not enough? How could she take the side of other people rather than of her own brother? How could she send him to prison?
Her gaze fell to the letter, and she smoothed the paper. Her hands trembled, and she wanted to savor every word.
The letter did not take long to read, but Emma still read it multiple times.
It didn’t make sense.
Why was her aunt begging Bertrand to return to the Austrian Empire so they could help her at the inn? And why was the letter dated this year?
And then she realized it: her aunt was alive.
Perhaps there’d never even been a fire.
Perhaps Bertrand had known all along and had simply wanted her to not protest when he moved them to England.
Her stomach twisted.
This time she did cry, even though hot tears would look suspicious to any passerby.
Finally, she sorted through the jewels. Thankfully she thought she remembered which jewels belonged to whom. Her heart thudded, but she unlocked the door to the corridor to confirm Bertrand had indeed left. She then tiptoed to each room, returning the jewels, thankful Emma and she were not the only people sharing rooms. Perhaps she didn’t know exactly where to return the jewels, but they could blame it on unusual dusting habits of the chamber maids.
A Kiss for the Marquess (Wedding Trouble, #5) Page 11
