‘I should call you out for what you just did,’ Bertram sputtered in fury.
‘Then do so. You just lost a sum you can’t pay back.’ Charles’s voice was low and cold.
Emma’s shoulders slumped. When would it end? The energy that had propelled her to the door evaporated. She stood as though rooted.
‘It is none of your business.’ Bertram’s voice held an ugly note.
‘I intend to make it my business. This time I will do a better job of ensuring that you cannot continue to gamble recklessly with no regard for anyone else.’
‘Such as Amy?’ Bertram’s tone was a sneer. ‘Or is it Emma now? But it doesn’t matter which one, it is all the same. Attention from you does neither of them any good.’
‘Changing the subject, Stockton?’ Charles’s tone was ominous.
‘Warning you away from my sisters.’
‘Just as you did with your previous challenge?’ Silky smooth, Charles’s tone dripped derision.
Emma wondered if he was trying to provoke Bertram into another challenge. If so, he was going about it the right way. At the moment, she thought she could easily allow Charles to meet Bertram.
‘Don’t think I won’t.’ Bertram’s boastful voice carried.
Charles’s laugh was cruel and hard. ‘I doubt you will be any more successful a second time than you were the first.’
‘I hit you!’ Bertram boasted. ‘It is more than you can claim.’
‘True, but then I didn’t have a grudge with you. You were and still are merely an irritant.’
Emma gasped. Charles was being deliberately provocative.
‘My problem with you,’ Bertram sputtered in his fury, ‘is that you won’t leave my sisters alone.’
‘You are a weak man and a fool.’ Cream and chocolate couldn’t have been smoother than Charles’s voice as he delivered that volley.
‘I gamble to win enough to pay off my debts.’
‘Don’t be stupider than you already are, Stockton.’ Contempt dripped from the words. ‘You gamble because you are addicted to it. Nothing else.’
‘You know nothing about it!’
‘More than you think.’ Charles’s voice was bitter. ‘And every time you sit down to a game of chance, you make it more difficult for your sisters to find husbands. Soon no man will be able to afford to show interest in them.’
‘You have gone too far now.’ Emma heard the sound of skin on skin and realised Bertram had slapped Charles. ‘What weapon will you choose this time?’
A heavy thud was the answer, followed by a yelp from Bertram. Belatedly, Emma rushed onto the parapet to see Bertram sprawled on his back, one hand at his mouth. The full moon showed blood on his lip.
‘That is what I choose, Stockton.’ Charles towered over her brother. ‘I have had enough of your whining and disregard for others. I got you invited to this party. I can have you thrown out just as easily if you don’t stop gambling.’ Charles’s voice was flat and carried conviction.
Emma had no doubt Lady Johnstone would do exactly as Charles wanted. He was her godson and Bertram was an uninvited guest who had been allowed to stay. She wondered how much more shame and debt Bertram would heap on their family.
She stepped up. ‘Charles. Bertram. How dare you fight out here like two schoolboys?’
They both turned to her. Bertram looked sullen as he scrambled to his feet. Charles looked annoyed.
‘Impeccable timing,’ Charles drawled.
She glared at him before turning to scowl at her brother. ‘Bertram, you are like a little boy. Constantly doing as you ought not. I am tired of it. If Charles, uh, Mr Hawthorne, doesn’t prevail upon Lady Johnstone to ask you to leave I will do so myself. First thing tomorrow I am writing to Papa and telling him that you continue to gamble and will ruin our last chance to find a husband for Amy.’
Bertram pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his lower lip, not meeting her look. ‘So you are siding with this scoundrel against your own flesh.’
She wanted to hit her brother in frustration. ‘No, I am doing what I should have done before. I know Papa doesn’t care if you gamble everything away—or everything he hasn’t already lost—but I doubt he will be pleased to hear that you are ruining our last chance by doing so here.’
Saying the words out loud made the situation even more real than just thinking about it. Until now, she hadn’t fully realised how much hope she had pinned to this house party. Her palms dampened and she wanted to run from the situation, but knew it would do no good. Something had to be done. She could not allow Bertram to stay if he was going to continue his old ways while here.
For the first time, the defiance left Bertram. ‘I will leave if you don’t write to Papa.’
She shook her head, amazed he thought he could bargain with her about this. ‘No. You will leave, and I will tell Papa. You need to go home and think about what you have been doing, not skulk off to London and continue this ruinous behaviour. It is not just yourself you destroy.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Charles’s admiring voice said. ‘That is the first time I have heard you stand up to anyone but Amy and me.’
She rounded on him. ‘As for you…’ Words failed her. What could she say to him? He was right and they both knew it.
‘Yes…?’ He drew the word out, one brow lifted, daring her to say her worst.
She turned back to Bertram, a problem she could solve now. ‘I want you gone to Hopewell tomorrow.’
‘You can’t order me around.’ He fastidiously folded his handkerchief and held it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I will leave here, but I will go where I please.’
‘Then I will write to Papa and tell him Amy and I are coming home early because of your unacceptable behaviour, and just when it appears that a young man is interested in Amy and that she returns his regard. Papa will not like that at all.’
A hunted look entered Bertram’s eyes, but he said nothing. Still holding his bloodied handkerchief between finger and thumb, he stalked down the steps leading to the dark garden. In seconds he disappeared.
‘Bravo, Emma. You were magnificent.’ Charles’s voice held admiration.
Emma focused on him. ‘False flattery won’t achieve anything.’
He stiffened. ‘It wasn’t false.’
‘Huh! I find that hard to believe. But either way, it is immaterial.’ Only a small traitorous part of her wanted to believe his flattery was real. She squashed the need.
‘I don’t think it is. You stood up to him for the first time. Now maybe he will start to mend his ways. And if he doesn’t, it is still not your problem.’ He took a step toward her, stopped when she stared him down. ‘Perhaps things will be easier for you. Young Chevalier might even offer for Amy.’
Exasperation ran along her emotions like a razor. ‘If you haven’t ruined her with your blatant attentions!’
He stepped back, his eyes hooded. ‘Oh, I doubt very much that my attentions have hurt Amy where that young buck is concerned.’
‘Only with all the others.’ The words were out before she thought. They hung in the air, their falseness obvious. It was Bertram who had hurt Amy’s chances, not Charles Hawthorne.
‘I very much doubt that. It is your father and brother’s reckless disregard for anything but their own addiction that is hurting Amy. And you.’
Shame and fury made an explosive combination. His honesty after her false accusation of him was too much. Emma slapped him.
‘Oh, my gosh!’ She stumbled back until the stone balustrade stopped her. One hand went to her mouth. ‘I am so sorry. I never…’
Words were beyond her. She turned and fled back through the lit rooms, up the stairs and into her bedchamber.
What had she done? She had lost her temper and hit someone who had only been telling her the truth. She flung herself onto the bed, one arm across her eyes and refused to cry. No matter how awful she felt at this moment. No matter how bad the future looked. She was not going to cry. It wo
uld do no good.
She also had to find Charles Hawthorne and apologise to him properly. She should have never slapped him. Never. No matter what he said or that it scared her that he had the power to make her blood run hot and her common sense go on holiday.
Lately, it seemed no matter where she went or what she did or what she told herself, he was always involved. He was a bittersweet complication that one moment she wanted to do away with and the next she wanted never to go away.
What a mess.
Charles stayed on the veranda until he was certain the mark he knew Emma’s hand had made on his cheek was gone. There was enough gossip about the Stocktons. His dragging Bertram outside had been ill-advised, but he had seen no other way to make the man stop losing large sums of money as though they were nothing.
He finally sauntered into the brightly lit room where games of chance were still being played. He smiled at several of the men, but thought about Emma. She was fighting a losing battle with Bertram’s addiction. He knew.
The next afternoon Emma dressed carefully in the lavender half-mourning gown that complemented her complexion. She pulled a few strands of hair free from her topknot and let them drift around her face. She was pale as a ghost. She pinched colour into her cheeks.
She began to shake, starting at her toes. Her lips trembled as though she would cry—or scream.
Her palms moistened and she rubbed them together, not wanting to take the chance of staining her skirts. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. Not because of excitement, she told herself, but because of fear.
What if he turned her down?
‘Are you feeling poorly?’ Betty’s voice came from a corner of the room. Emma had forgotten the old retainer was still here.
‘I am fine, Betty. Perhaps too much sun this morning.’
‘That would explain the flush,’ the older woman said dryly.
Emma suspected Betty knew something was about to happen. But she was not going to tell anyone her plan. If he refused, she would be mortified. If he accepted, she would be ruined—damaged goods.
But she was not on the Marriage Mart, so it wouldn’t matter to anyone but her. And she wanted this. One memory outside of time to remember for the rest of her life.
One last look and she swept from the room without looking at Betty. She didn’t want to see the expression on the maid’s face. She sped past Amy’s room, refusing to consider what Amy would say or do if she found out. With luck and discretion, no one but she and Charles Hawthorne would ever know about this.
Reaching the ground floor, she started methodically going from one room to the other. If he was out hunting or riding the area, she would have to wait until after dinner. Nervous anticipation sped her footsteps.
An hour later, she accepted defeat. Disappointment made her move sluggishly. She had been emotionally prepared to approach him. Waiting until this evening, until after dinner in all likeliness, increased her anxiety a thousandfold.
And what if she couldn’t speak to him in private? She did not intend to proposition him in a room where there were other people, no matter how far away those people might be. She wanted utter, complete, absolute privacy.
Admitting defeat for the moment, she dragged her feet to the small arbor where just yesterday morning she had stood with Charles Hawthorne while he lectured her on Bertram and Amy. If only she had known then.
She sat on the edge of the loveseat, her nerves too tight for her to relax fully. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in her lap as she rehearsed what she would say. I want to be your mistress. She shook her head. She sighed and rubbed her temples.
Her head ached with a vengeance.
Should she ask please? Should she act as though there was no doubt he would agree? What if he said no? Or should she run and burrow into the bedcovers and forget this wild plan?
If he said no, she would be mortified. She had never thought herself a beautiful or alluring woman, but she had to admit Charles Hawthorne’s blatant pursuit of her these last days made her feel attractive. It would hurt more than she cared to admit to anyone, even herself, if he refused her offer.
What if he accepted her offer? Her toes curled at the possibilities. Her fingers twiddled in her lap and she stared at nothing, wondering what it would be like to do that. She had never much considered it when engaged to Charles’s brother, but now she found herself intrigued to the point of wishing she had a fan to cool herself. It must be powerful for men to pay women like Harriette Wilson large sums of money to procure her favours.
‘Miss Stockton?’ Mr Helmsley’s deep voice intruded.
She jumped to her feet, and her heart skipped a beat. Not only was she nearly hysterical with nerves, she was now keyed up and excited about what happened between a man and a woman.
‘Mr Helmsley.’ Her voice was breathless and a little husky. ‘I didn’t hear you.’
He smiled kindly at her. ‘You were deep in thought and from the look on your face, it was pleasurable.’
Emma didn’t think she could be more uncomfortable than she had been, but his words rushed the blood to her face. She waved her hand in an effort to seem nonchalant. ‘Oh, it was nothing.’
‘Then may I hope you have a moment to speak with me?’ Admiration lit his brown eyes.
Apprehension twisted her stomach. Her unease increased, but she couldn’t tell him no. He might be here to speak about anything. She remained standing, not liking the sense of vulnerability his towering over her caused.
‘Of course I have time, Mr Helmsley.’
He stepped closer. ‘Will you be seated?’ He took out his handkerchief and cleaned the stone bench she had sprung from.
She watched him and wished she had made up an excuse. After his taking the trouble to wipe the seat, she felt compelled to sit. He sat beside her with just enough space between them so their thighs didn’t touch, although his right shoulder brushed her left shoulder.
She felt the discomfort of having someone too close. There were no sparks, no heat, no uncanny awareness. Even his scent of pine seemed to fade into nothing. She sighed in regret.
He cleared his throat, and it was obvious what he wanted to say was important to him. ‘Miss Stockton, I know we have not known each other long.’
She gave him a wan smile. ‘Several days.’
‘Yes.’ He took her hand that she had braced on the bench. She gently pulled it away and he allowed her. ‘But I have something I would like to say to you—’
Dismay held her tongue. She had thought he might find her interesting but she had not expected a potential offer. Not this soon.
He took her silence as a void to be filled. ‘I am not a wealthy man.’ His jaw twitched and his cheeks reddened. ‘I know the situation your brother is in, and I cannot help with that. But I am comfortably off, and I could provide you with a good life.’ He took a deep breath, looking like a man who struggled for every word. ‘And I would cherish you.’
She felt miserable. Guilt at allowing him to expose himself like this mingled with disappointment that she felt nothing. She could not give Mr Helmsley the answer he wanted.
‘I am very flattered, Mr Helmsley, that you see me in that light.’ She angled to look at him and to put distance between their bodies. ‘But I am not able to accept. You deserve a woman who will love you or at the very least care deeply. I do not feel I am she.’ She trailed off, not sure what to say next. She felt awful.
For a moment he looked stricken before he cleared his countenance. ‘I thank you for your honesty, Miss Stockton. I have been importunate and would be ashamed if I weren’t so sincere in my admiration.’ She said nothing. He spoke into the void, ‘I will leave you.’ He made her an elegant leg and left.
She watched him go, his footsteps fading as distance parted them. The realisation of just seconds before buffeted her.
She would prefer to be a governess than married to a man she didn’t love because she could not have the man she loved. Heaven help her, she loved Charles Hawthorne an
d he cared nothing for her.
What a fool she was. What a helpless fool.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up from her throat followed by tears of doubt and fear. He did not love her. He would never love her.
She buried her face in her hands.
It seemed only seconds later that footsteps crunching on gravel intruded on her shocked dismay. Emma dropped her hands and sat straighter, hoping whoever was coming her way would pass by on the other side of the hedge and not see her.
She sensed him before she saw him.
Charles Hawthorne turned the corner that led him right to her. She forced herself to smile past the anxiety that had increased to a nearly unbearable degree. Now was her chance to apologise to him, but she was still dazed by the realisation that she loved him.
‘Miss Stockton.’ He stopped a distance away and studied her. ‘Are you unwell?’
Hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat. Her lips trembled in spite of her effort to control herself. ‘Of course.’
‘Have you been in the sun too long?’ He persisted, moving closer.
She shook her head, hoping her voice wouldn’t show she had been crying. ‘I have just arrived here. I have been looking for you.’
He raised one brow. ‘You have?’
She nodded. ‘I…I want to apologise for my behaviour last night. It was uncalled for. You did me a service. I should not have repaid it by slapping you.’
He was too close. His musky scent moved over her like a caress. She stood and edged around the stone bench, even as she told herself to stay put.
‘You are telling me you’re sorry?’
Exasperation began to ease some of her sensual awareness of him. ‘I believe that is what I just said—Charles.’
He smiled and the breath left her. She wanted him so much. No, she told herself. He was everything she didn’t want in a man. Arrogant. Selfish. Egotistical.
Yet her heart beat wildly because he was near her.
A look of utter disbelief contorted his features. ‘You apologised and you used my first name.’
Georgina Devon Page 24
