“Emilie, we’ve been so worried,” India said.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” Nicholas asked sharply, but it was only too obvious what Emilie was doing.
And now Emilie shot to her feet, recoiling, trying to drag the soaking fabric—the embroidered cover from her bed, India now saw—from the pond. The light from Nicholas’s lantern reflected on Emilie’s wet cheeks and illuminated her horrified eyes.
“C’est rien—c’est rien!” Emilie babbled. It’s nothing. “I spilled my soup, but I’ve washed it. It’s clean now.”
Nicholas pulled her into his arms, and India pried the wet bedcover from her hand. Captain Warre joined them, taking the lantern from Nicholas.
“You scared me to death,” Nicholas was saying to Emilie, holding her tight even though she herself was soaked. “You must never come to the pond at night—c’est trop dangereux.”
“Mais le couvre—”
“You’re not here to wash bedding.” He pulled back and took her chin gently in his hand. “Comprends? You’re not a laundress anymore. You’re—”
“You’re here to stay,” India interrupted quickly, putting a hand on Emilie’s shoulder. “Not to do washing.” She turned to Captain Warre. “Aboard the ship, of course, she had a job to do, but here—”
“India,” Nicholas said tiredly. “That won’t be necessary.”
She looked at him, looked at the dark wet blotches on the front of his jacket and waistcoat where he’d held Emilie against him. Looked into his eyes, and realized what he meant to do.
“Forgive me,” Captain Warre said, “but am I missing something?”
* * *
NICK SENT EMILIE upstairs with India and asked Honoria and James to join him in the library. He poured three glasses of port, trying to formulate the words he would need.
He was so, so tired of living a lie.
“La, what an awful scare,” Honoria was saying. “One never likes to think of children outside alone at night, especially not in the country, where any kind of nocturnal beast could be lurking.”
James just sipped his port, studying Nick over the top of his glass.
“What on earth could have possessed the child to go to the pond now?” Honoria went on. “Although heaven knows, with orphans, how they’re raised. One can hardly blame them for having no sense of civility, poor dears. I’m sure she’ll grow into a fine servant for you, though, with a bit of proper training—”
“Emilie is not my servant.”
Honoria’s brows lifted. “She isn’t.” And then comprehension filled her eyes. “Oh. Oh, Nicholas...” Her gaze shifted to James, whose expression didn’t budge.
And Nick knew exactly what they were thinking. “Emilie is not my child.” He drew in a breath. “She is my sister.”
Now one of James’s brows shot up. “Your sister.”
“La, Nicholas, that isn’t possible, unless Father— James, could Father have—”
“It wasn’t Father,” Nicholas said on a sigh, rubbing his forehead. “It was Mother.”
“But Mother’s been—” James cut off as Nick saw him putting the pieces together.
“Emilie is the daughter of a Parisian laundress, or so I assume—her mother is dead. She was fathered by a priest who is not averse to enjoying the delights of his city.” Nick looked at them. “And according to Mother, so was I.” There it was. The truth, out in the open after fourteen years.
Honoria stared at him with confused, disbelieving eyes. James only sipped his port.
Nick narrowed his eyes at him. “You knew?”
“No.”
“When did Mother tell you this, Nicholas?” Honoria asked softly.
“The afternoon she died.”
“And you’ve carried it all this time?” She reached for him, but he was too on edge to accept her touch—too afraid of what would happen when they really considered what this meant.
“I don’t expect things to be the same between us,” he said, looking at James.
“Christ’s sake, Nick. Don’t be an ass.” James drained his glass and went for the bottle.
“Things aren’t the same. And they never will be—it’s a simple fact. But I thought you both deserved to know the truth.”
“And you think you already know the effect it will have,” James said, looking over with the bottle in his hand.
“La, Nicholas...what a terrible, awful thing. I hardly know what to say.”
“You don’t know what to say?” India echoed, walking into the room, and bloody hell, Nick knew that tone and that expression.
“India—”
“Let me offer a suggestion,” India said coldly. “Perhaps, ‘How wonderful that you have a sister,’ or, ‘You’re still my brother, Nicholas.’ If you reject him now—reject both of them—it would be because of something that isn’t even their fault.”
“India—” Nick tried again.
“And it will be your loss,” India went on, moving directly in front of him as if defending him from attack, “because Emilie is the sweetest, gentlest girl ever born, and Nicholas is the most deserving of men.” He was? “Even had he never received that money, even if he had to sell Taggart and live in the dirtiest hovel, I would be proud to call him my husband.”
She would?
“How much more should you be proud to call him your brother?”
There was dead silence except for the thunder of Nick’s pulse in his ears.
He looked at India.
Then at James and Honoria, and said, “Excuse us a moment.”
* * *
INDIA’S HEART RACED as Nicholas steered her from the room.
He was furious. She’d seen that expression before. That day at the dressmaker’s when she’d worn no fichu. That night at Madame Gravelle’s. A short while ago, at the edge of the pond when they’d first spotted Emilie.
He stopped outside the room and turned her to face him.
“Please forgive me. I spoke without thinking—”
“I’m not giving you that ship.”
And he kissed her. And it was as if he was giving her his very soul, which she wanted so much more than any ship, and she had to tell him how she felt, could not let him send her away without at least letting him know—
“I love you,” he said roughly against her lips, breaking away enough to look at her. “I love your fearlessness and your loyalty and the heart you have for Emilie and even for Miss Ursula, and I don’t want you off sailing the Mediterranean—I want you here. With me. Every day for the rest of my life.”
She stared at him—at those deadly serious green eyes that held so much in. They held nothing in now...everything he was feeling for her churned behind them as he waited.
Waited for her to say something.
A hundred thoughts and emotions cluttered her tongue, but what came out was, “I can’t read.”
His hands tightened around her face. “I don’t care, India.”
“I’ve tried—I’ve tried so hard. I was seeing a tutor in London, but I could only see him twice before we came to Taggart—”
“I’ll bring him here.”
“But I’ll be no good—”
“I’ll help you. And if you can never do it, I’ll read for you myself. I’ll hire ten servants to follow you everywhere and read every damned word in the world. But I won’t buy you a ship so you can sail away from me. If you want to leave, you’ll have to find another way.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
He searched her face. “I forced you to marry me.”
“I don’t care about that. I love you.”
“I took your virginity in a damned brothel.”
“I gave it to you in a brothel,” she countered, scarcely able to comprehend what was happening. “And I would give it to you again if I could, ten times over, and anywhere you liked—at Taggart, in a cottage...even in a bed of hay. Because I love you. I love you, Nicholas, and I don’t ever want to leave you.”
His mouth came
down on hers again—hard, possessive, demanding everything she had.
“La, James,” came Honoria’s soft voice behind her, “I don’t think she’ll be going to the Mediterranean after all.”
EPILOGUE
INDIA SAT NEXT to Nicholas in the rowboat, laughing as she worked one oar and he worked the other, while Emilie sat giggling in the bow.
“On fait des circles,” Emilie said.
“Yes,” Nicholas growled, raising a brow at India, “we are going in circles, because someone doesn’t know how to row.”
“Of course I know how to row,” India said happily, dipping her oar into the water. “I have a seafaring nature.” Quickly she dipped her hand into the pond and flung a splash of water at him.
“You’ll pay for that.”
“I hope this isn’t another one of your empty threats, Mr. Warre.” India stretched up to kiss him loudly on the cheek, and Emilie smothered a new peal of giggles behind her hand.
“We shall see, shan’t we,” he said under his breath, and she flushed.
In the bow, Emilie reached for the sack of stale bread pieces Miss Ursula had given her and tossed one toward the ducks, who immediately flocked closer, and for the moment there was no need to row. The ducks quacked and splashed, chasing after morsels of bread.
India looked up at Nicholas, and it was as if the entire world lived behind his eyes.
He leaned down and touched his lips briefly to hers. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he murmured.
“What?”
He pulled back, touched her cheek, looked deeply into her eyes while Emilie laughed and threw bread, making the boat rock a little. “Will you marry me?”
India’s breath caught.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit?” Emilie asked excitedly, her attention suddenly on them, demanding to know what Nicholas had said. “Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit?”
“He wanted to know if I will marry him,” India said, smiling ridiculously up at him. “And I am saying yes.”
* * * * *
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ISBN-13: 9781460331217
A WEDDING BY DAWN
Copyright © 2014 by Black Canyon Creations, LLC
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A Wedding by Dawn Page 29
