The last course was served, and now they were merely lingering at the table. In a transparent attempt to bring Emily into the circle, Bracebridge told the others how she had taken in Frieda and Socrates and bluntly ended with, “My affection for that dog goes far beyond reason, and if the cat does not sit on my lap when I’m reading, I am entirely out of sorts.”
Ciolini put her elbow on the table and rested her chin between her thumb and forefinger as she slowly blinked her magnificent eyes at Bracebridge. “I do not recall that you had any great liking for animals before.”
“I have now. Hearing what mischief she’s been up to—” Bracebridge winked at Emily. “—the dog, not my wife, when I’ve returned home, amuses me no end.” He helped himself to more wine. “There is much to be said for the salutatory effect of a devoted dog on one’s mood.”
“I promise all of you,” Emily said, “that I am rarely up to mischief.”
Bracebridge hoisted his glass in her direction. “But when you are, darling, when you are.”
“Ooh, la, la,” said Mrs. Quinn, fanning herself.
Mr. Rachagorla chuckled. “What husband would not be desperately in love with such a delightful and charming woman as Lady Bracebridge?
Mrs. Quinn, being seated to Bracebridge’s left, put her hand on his arm and said, “You’ve done well for yourself, my lord.”
“I have.”
Mr. Simmons and Mr. Rachagorla shared stories about Bracebridge that gave Emily a different view of her husband. He was well liked by these people, and not because he was Lord Bracebridge. They liked him because he had been their friend during times and circumstances she had always assumed had been the most trying of his life. Perhaps not. Perhaps not in the way she’d imagined.
They soon after removed to the withdrawing room, and Bracebridge headed for the side table. Several decanters and bottles were lined up with the various glasses suited to each of the liquors. A footman in a somber suit of black wool stood ready to serve.
“There’s brandy.” Bracebridge looked over his shoulder at Mr. Rachagorla. “What you sent me from your private stock, so perhaps that’s too familiar, my friend. Sherry. Hock? Something else?”
He meant, Emily realized, brandy that had been smuggled in from France during the war.
“Brandy, please,” Mr. Rachagorla said. “Whatever you have on hand.”
“Simmons, I have Green Chartreuse for you. Ciolini? Moll?” The women made their requests, and Bracebridge busied himself playing host.
Mr. Rachagorla lifted his glass in Emily’s direction with a quizzical look. “Nothing for you, Lady Bracebridge? The brandy is excellent, I assure you.”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Your husband does not permit you spirits?” Signora Ciolini raised her voice. “A wise decision, my lord, with a wife so young as yours.”
Bracebridge lifted a hand before Emily could settle on the best response. An amused smile hovered on his mouth as he handed Ciolini the drink she’d requested. “Believe me, my wife has a mind of her own.”
“Does she? I mean no disrespect.” Signora Ciolini put a hand on Bracebridge’s chest and gazed up at him. “But she is so young.”
“Please, Ciolini,” Mr. Rachagorla said. “Will you sing for us? I am happy to accompany you.” Fortunately, this suggestion was eagerly applauded.
Five minutes later, Emily was in absolute raptures. She would forgive Ciolini anything in return for the joy of her hearing her sing. After a fourth sublime song, Ciolini relinquished the floor to Mrs. Quinn. She performed a scene from Macbeth, and another from Richard III with Mr. Simmons, who proved he had no little talent himself, with a subsequent and riveting performance of Falstaff.
In the silence that fell at the conclusion of Mr. Simmons’s enactment of Hamlet’s soliloquy, they all heard Bracebridge say in some frustration, “I am married now.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bracebridge settled on the sofa in his father’s smoking room, once the Lemon Parlor so beloved by his mother. He plucked the most recent issue of the Edinburgh Review from a table and stretched his legs toward the grate. He did not open the magazine; instead, he stared at the ceiling. Uneasiness interfered with his ability to concentrate. He did not care for the feeling yet did not know what to do about it.
Gopal sat beside him with a charcoal pencil and a sketch pad, drawing intricate patterns. They weren’t smoking despite the name given to the room. They had luncheoned at Two Fives, then moved to the Margaret Street house all because Bracebridge had hoped Emily would be there. As it turned out, she was not. She’d gone out for the afternoon. He refused to dwell on his disappointment.
“Are you staying in London much longer?” Gopal asked. In the normal course of things, Bracebridge spent extended summers at Corth Abbey with frequent stays at Rosefeld or with Cynssyr. He only went to the Lords if it was absolutely necessary, though he did enjoy casting votes for reform.
“Undetermined at this time.” He flipped through several pages of his magazine without reading a single line of text. “Have I told you her bloody father refused to send on her possessions?” He remained outraged, which was something of a surprise. “I have considered engaging a lawyer.”
“The question is whether the cost is worth the aggravation.”
He could always rely on Gopal’s honest opinion. That honesty was a benefit of a friendship that predated his stepping into his father’s title. “The more aggravated Sinclair is, the better.”
“The pettiness is mutual, then.”
“Have you been speaking with my wife? For she’s told me the same.”
Gopal chuckled as he drew. “Lady Bracebridge is a wise woman.”
“My point is, why should her father engage in such despicable behavior without consequence? As her husband, I ought to stand up for her.”
“I agree it would be satisfying to have a court compel the return of her possessions.” This pencil moved across the page. “However many years hence, I am sure you shall be quite satisfied.”
“He left her with nothing. Nothing but her dog and what she had in her pockets when she left Bartley Green.” He tossed aside the magazine. “I tell you, I have yet to hear one word of complaint from her.”
Gopal shot him a glance, and Bracebridge felt a twinge of guilt. Emily kept too much to herself, and he knew that was his fault. “Fortunately, you are more than capable of providing her with all she requires for her comfort and sustenance.”
“We are in town for that reason entirely. It’s not as though I do not do my duty to her. In any event, she ought to have a new wardrobe. As befits my countess.”
“Certainly.”
“Because of her father’s pettiness, she has forever lost mementos and other items she holds dear. Even when you and I hadn’t a shilling between us, did we not have possessions that meant a great deal to us, items we would have been devastated to lose?”
“I do not disagree with you.”
“Is that not worth some pettiness from me?”
“A man is wise who considers the opinions and counsel of one’s partner in life.”
Bracebridge shook his head, but he didn’t know whether he was disagreeing or simply acknowledging the situation was more complicated than he wanted to admit. “What man does not think himself fortunate if his wife is beautiful?”
“Is that all you see?” Gopal stopped sketching. “Her beauty? I tell you I see much more. A woman who is kind, and thoughtful, and forbearing. Ciolini behaved badly to her, yet your wife welcomed her. Your destiny is most fortunate.”
“Yes, of course.” Was hers, though? He was more than willing to admit his good fortune. But would she say the same about hers? He had no idea. “I fear she is unhappy.”
Gopal put aside his paper and pencil. “You believe that because you loved another woman once, you can never love another, but I tell you that is not true. Fate has brought you here, to this time and to this place. Fate has brought you together with the wife you wer
e meant to have. She is your destiny. Cease looking back on what did not come to pass and accept what did.”
He knew what Gopal meant. Emily had told him as much herself: that when he looked at her, he saw only the ways in which she was not Anne. He had loved Anne, and there would always be a place in his heart for her. That did not mean there wasn’t a place for Emily. “I don’t know her.”
Gopal looked down his nose at Bracebridge. “Is this not something you should remedy?” He consulted the clock on the fireplace mantel. “I ought to have been at Two Fives half an hour ago. My dear Bracebridge, I leave you to contemplate the life you have.”
He stood, but Gopal raised a hand.
“I’ll show myself out” He put a hand on Bracebridge’s shoulder and squeezed once. “Open your eyes and ears, and you may find that you have also opened your heart.”
When the door closed behind him, Bracebridge sat on the sofa facing the fire. What if Gopal was right? What if?
Socrates sauntered in and jumped on Bracebridge’s lap. How a three-legged cat could saunter was a mystery, but there was no doubt the cat managed it. He’d gained weight in the short time he’d been here and was looking to be a proper tomcat one day. Within moments, Socrates was fast asleep, his fur soft beneath Bracebridge’s fingers.
Emily came home not long after he and Socrates had settled onto the sofa. He listened to the unmistakable stir of her arrival: her greeting Pond, Frieda’s nails clicking on the marble. That dog loved her. But of course she did. Emily had saved her, given her a home, and loved her unreservedly.
He thought of Frieda never having been rescued, or Socrates here never having been noticed. The idea opened a crack across his heart, and part of that was grief pouring out for the woman he had loved and the woman he did not. He was flawed, too flawed to love where he ought to.
He ought to get up and go to her. He ought to tell her how sorry he was and that he would try to do better. The moment before he came to his feet, intending that somehow between now and when he found her, he would have the right words, Emily tapped on the door.
“My lord?”
“Enter,” he called out. He closed his eyes and pictured her in his mind. What came to him was a recollection of her joyful smile. How tenderly she held Socrates. The two of them in bed. He pictured Emily in fullness, with depth, shadow and light, in color and in joy, all spreading a tenderness in his heart.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” Concern threaded through her words, and he sat up straight. Her skirts swished as she walked across the room. He tried to see past her smile and couldn’t because she intended her smile to be a shield. “Have you seen Socrates?”
Who was she, besides the Divine Sinclair?
Owing to the high sides of the sofa, she could not see the cat asleep on his lap. “They’ve not seen him in the kitchen,” she said, “and I can’t find him anywhere.”
He did not know much about his wife, but he did know she’d convinced herself some horrible fate had befallen Socrates, just as she continually worried that something might happen to Frieda. Her father had done that to her. Thomas Sinclair had raised his daughters in a household where they must constantly worry about what they might lose next. Was it any wonder Emily armored herself against disasters imagined and real?
“Here.” He lifted a hand and gestured for her to come the rest of the way in. As ever, he was struck by her beauty, but they now shared the familiarity that came with intimacy. “All is well.”
She cared deeply for those whom she loved. She lived most of her life dreading, anticipating, and preparing for the next disaster. All the incidents and challenges Anne had described about her life applied to Emily. She had lived all that, too.
She came around just to the side, so that she could see him and now the cat. Relief spread across her face, followed quickly by chagrin. “It’s ridiculous, I know. I can’t seem to help myself. No, no!” She lifted her hands, palms out, then bent to pet Frieda, who had followed her into the room. “Do not stand, my lord. You cannot.”
He remained as he was. For now at least, they were a married couple at their leisure, and it was entirely appropriate for them to converse when they were together and for them to relax the rules of propriety. “Then sit here beside me.”
She retreated farther behind the mask of her perfection and settled her weight on one hip. “There’s no reason for me to disturb you.” She saw the magazine he’d thrown, now just out of his reach. “Shall I fetch that for you?”
“Not necessary.”
He placed the cat on the sofa and stood. “Emily.”
“Yes?” She waited patiently, hands clasped before her.
“Did you have a pleasant day?”
Her eyebrows rose. His wife was a person entire in herself, with a heart, emotions, likes, and dislikes. Just like Anne or any other woman. Except with Emily, he had made mistake after mistake. He had assumed the least of her rather than the most.
All the air in the room vanished.
She was not happy.
Emily was not happy, and the fault was his.
“I did, thank you,” she said.
He had no way of knowing whether that was true. She had been protecting herself from his neglect and disinterest for some time. She told him what he wanted to hear instead of anything personal about her. His chest tightened, and he drew a breath.
“Emily. I was wrong to instruct Pond to return Corth Abbey to its previous condition. Not just wrong, but wrongheaded and ungentlemanly. You have every right to make your stamp in our home.”
She maintained her smooth, pleasant expression. “You disliked the changes. It was your right to revoke them.”
“The entrance was bright and cheerful.” He had badly underestimated her, for she understood that he had ordered the changes undone simply because she had made them. “I liked what you did, and it was unforgivable of me to behave as if I did not.”
Her eyes widened, and she backed away from him. His heart cracked open wider. “Don’t go,” he said. Objections swirled around in his head. She meant to leave him; he was afraid it would kill them if she did. “Please. Do not go.”
“Little Merton isn’t far. Come whenever it pleases you.”
“I apologize to you for Ciolini’s behavior. She was petty and jealous. I don’t know why she behaved that way, but I assure you there is nothing between us. There has not been for years. Since before I ever met a Sinclair.”
“Honestly, you needn’t worry about that. You must have your own life.”
“By which you mean?” There was more, he knew it. He could see she was deciding how to reply, and he did not know whether to wait for her decision about what more to say or ask or insist or plead with her to tell him.
She sighed. “It’s no wonder you were lovers.”
“Years ago. We are not now, no matter what she wanted you to believe.” He walked to her and took her hand and he tried, he tried so very hard to see her for herself, but all he saw was the woman he’d wanted her to be. “I do not know how to be the man you deserve.” He touched his chest. “I am broken here. I have been broken for years. This house. This house haunts me. Your sister haunts me, and I do not know how to love anymore. I’m sorry, Emily. So sorry. If I were capable, I would love you. If only I could.”
She drew in a shaky breath and took another step back. “Do not do this. Do not. I beg of you, my lord.”
“I have been disrespectful of you and your position as my wife and countess. I have not treated you as a partner in our union. I was wrong to do so. For all that and more, I beg your forgiveness.”
She blinked several times.
He was not a man to be impotent in the face of strong emotion, but he struggled to find words to convey the chaos of his heart. “You deserve more than I can give. You are so much more than I ever imagined of you. I want to love you, Emily. I want to love you as you deserve to be loved. I want to love you the way I loved Anne. I want to more than you can imagine.”
&nbs
p; “I haven’t asked you to love me that way.” She retreated another step. “Never.” There was a tear in the veil she kept over the untroubled facade she presented. He saw through it now and was shaken by her sorrow. This was what Mrs. Elliot had meant. He’d made his young and joyful wife unhappy. “Your love for Anne was real and true. Hold that in your heart, for she deserved your regard. She deserves it now.”
He closed the distance between them. “I have denied you the respect you deserve. There is my confessed fault, renounced from this moment. I shall inform Pond that your instructions are to be followed without question. Here and at Corth Abbey.”
Slowly, she shook her head, and he confronted the abyss of a failure worse than any his father had accused him of. Not mere failure but personal dishonor. He had no idea how to repair this. “Stay. Please stay. Stay and make this house into a place where my father does not lurk in every corner. Please.” His throat grew thick. “Please stay. Please stay with me, and let me try.”
“Oh, Bracebridge.”
He brushed a hand across her cheek and congratulated himself for finding a bridge they could both cross, however tentatively. “Let’s begin now as we should have from the start. We’re in London. Let’s entertain as Lord and Lady Bracebridge ought.” She relaxed into that contact, and the heat between them was instantaneous. “Allow me to show off my beautiful wife.”
“You see,” she said without irony. He was delighted that he had found a way to begin. “I am useful.”
He slid his arms around her. Thank the stars above, he’d found a way to start.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The moment her husband’s lips brushed across hers, her stomach burst into shivers of longing. In his arms, her unhappiness vanished. She adored kissing him, was lost entirely whenever he did. Her body wanted his, craved the devastation of his touch, the exquisite bliss of completion in his arms. Though his every touch eroded the safeguards she’d erected around her heart, she was safest at times like this. Pleasure crowded out everything else.
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