Baxter had regained his own composure, and with a significant look at Less said, “The vicomte was just telling us how he happens to be in London. You are visiting some English friends, I believe, now that the war is over and things begin to return to normal?”
The young man’s smooth brow furrowed. “Normal?” he said. “Things will not be normal for a great while to come. The madman’s rage through Europe has left my own poor country as an orphan, alone, unwanted, unloved. The rich are now poor, and the poor are destitute. The countryside stinks of death and destruction, and the madman is alive, though in exile, on Saint Helena. I hope he dies a wretched and tortured death.”
The pain in the young man’s voice touched Emily deeply, and on impulse she laid her hand over his where it clutched the seat of the divan. He glanced up at her and his expression slowly dissolved from desolation to dawning devotion.
• • •
Baxter watched the interchange with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Emily slid her hand over the Frenchman’s, and the damned puppy got a completely silly look of love on his damnably handsome face. How could she encourage him like that? He was ten years her junior if he was a day, and she was a married woman, damn her eyes!
Belle tugged at his sleeve.
“What is it?” he said, his voice harsh.
She made a moue of distaste. “Well, if you’re going to shout at me . . .”
He passed one long-fingered hand over his face and took a moment to settle himself. He could consign Less to Hell that moment, and very cheerfully, for bringing Emily with him. What was he about? Baxter glanced down at Belle.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, under cover of the chatter that filled the room between Emily and the vicomte.
“That is your wife?” she asked, hooking one thumb over her shoulder.
He grabbed her hand. “Please, do not do that, it is vulgar. Yes, that is my wife, Emily.”
“I thought she’d be beautiful!” the girl stated with some satisfaction. “But she’s a podgy old gal!”
Baxter glanced back over at Emily. She had withdrawn her hand, but the Frenchman had moved over until his thigh was resting against hers on the divan. She was pink-cheeked and embarrassed about whatever it was the young man was murmuring. Belle was right; Emily was plump. Her cheeks no longer sloped to hollows under her cheekbones, and a slight doubling of her chin spoiled the once-perfect shape of her face. Her arms above the gloves were quite round.
Of course, the added weight, two stone, perhaps, maybe a little less—certainly less than he had at first estimated—had served to make her already voluptuous bosom even more bountiful. The fullness could not be disguised even by her day gown of soft rose muslin, accented with forest green velvet ribbons. He remembered from the theater and then the ball the night before that the skin of her bosom was still as delicate and perfect as always.
She was still a beautiful woman and sumptuously curvaceous, even if she no longer had a girlish figure. The Frenchman seemed taken with her. He stared at her adoringly like a half-wit moonling, the elegance of his lightly accented voice tripping over compliments to her that were making her blush.
Belle broke into his thoughts, her voice pettish and petulant, her gutter accent coming back as it always did when she was agitated.
“You’d think ’e never saw a woman before! It’s positively disgusting, an’ with ’er husband sitting right here the whole while! And her so old and fat, besides.”
“Belle!” Baxter said with a warning in his voice. Her tones were shrill and carrying, and he did not want his wife to hear her vulgar comments. He would protect Belle from Emily’s disdain. Or Emily from Belle’s contempt.
Belle stared avidly at Emily and the young Frenchman. “P’raps it’s just her manner,” the girl said thoughtfully.
Curious, Baxter glanced over at her. “What do you mean?”
Belle struggled to put into words what was in her mind. Finally, not used to deciphering her own feelings, she shrugged. “I don’t know, she just seems . . . she is just . . . a lady.” The last word was said wistfully.
Baxter sighed. It was true. Though a Yorkshire girl, more used to country than London ways, Emily carried with her an ineffably regal serenity that was the pattern card of perfect manners. Her voice was well-modulated, her walk a glide, and her carriage upright and straight-backed.
She even parried the Frenchman’s abundant praise with a light laugh and graceful delicacy. And it would always be the same, even if she took the young man as her lover . . .
Her lover? Where did that thought come from? Baxter stared at the couple with narrowed eyes. But yes, his regard confirmed his unconscious observation. The young man would eagerly move to make her his mistress if she showed the slightest hint of encouragement.
Baxter scowled and turned his gaze away from them, only to encounter Less’s amused eyes. His friend smiled and looked at the pair significantly, as if sharing Baxter’s thoughts.
Baxter turned back to Belle, who was working herself up into a huff of indignation over being ignored. Before he could say a word to her she had flounced to her feet. “I simply must be on my way!” she announced to the room at large. “I think I shall go shopping!”
Marchant had jumped to his feet at the same moment, his cheeks reddening. “I fear, Milord Sedgely, that I have overstayed my welcome.”
Belle swayed over to his side and gave him a long look up through her lashes. “Then perhaps you can go with me shopping, monsoor?”
He looked startled at her forward behavior. But his elegant manners would not let him ignore such a hint from a lady, or even from a woman he perhaps suspected was not a lady. “Of course, mademoiselle. I should be ’appy to accompany you.” With one regretful look down at Emily, he made his bow to Sedgely. “Milord, if you will allow it, I will visit again to inquire after your health. Monsieur Lessington.”
He turned back to Emily. “Milady, may I beg of you permission to pay my respects to you in person some afternoon?” His tone was lower as he spoke to her.
She blushed becomingly and brought a card from her reticule. “How could I refuse such a lovely request? My card, Monsieur Le Vicomte.” She held out her hand once again.
“Enchanté, encore.” He bowed low and kissed her gloved hand once again, lingering just a fraction of a second too long for Baxter’s taste.
Belle, her lovely face frozen in an expression of distaste, said good-bye to Emily and Lessington. Then she turned to Baxter. “Are you sure there is nothing I can do to make you feel better? Nothing at all?”
Just the way she said it implied lewd and lascivious activities unrelated to nursing. Baxter glanced over at Emily, who tactfully kept her eyes down on her entwined fingers.
“No, Belle. Run along, there’s a good girl.” He didn’t know what possessed him to treat her as if she was a niece, but it was out before he could stop it. Emily could hardly help but know that the girl was his mistress, but it was indecent to have them both in his parlor at once, and it made him feel as awkward as a colt at his first fence. Damn Less!
She pouted and wheeled around on her heel, joining Marchant at the door. They made a handsome couple as she threaded her arm through his.
“Then I will see you another time, Baxter.” Head held high, she marched from the room, tugging the reluctant Frenchman with her.
“Whew!” Less sighed when the door was safely shut behind the retreating guests.
Baxter sent a cross look his way and glanced pointedly over at Emily. “So, what brings you two out today?”
“Oh, Baxter,” Emily said. She rose and crossed the room to him and sank down gracefully on the low stool. Baxter watched her suspiciously. What had changed her defensiveness since the night before? “Tell me how it happened.” Delicately she touched his ankle and he flinched. Pressing her lips together, she gently massaged the swollen ankle.
At first he groaned in pain, but soon he relaxed, wondering at the sensation of warmth and co
mfort that came from her touch. He leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. She had always had the natural instincts of a healer, now that he thought about it. It was his injury, not himself, that brought her to him.
He sighed and began his story. “I was on my way home from Lady Jersey’s last night. I didn’t bring my carriage; you know how I despise waiting and detest being driven. I don’t know where my mind was. If I had been paying attention . . .” He shook his head, a look of chagrin on his face.
She made a sympathetic sound in her throat and massaged his ankle.
It felt so good that despite his efforts to maintain his posture, he found himself relaxing in the chair, slumping against the back. “Before I was aware, someone had socked me in the back of the head with something heavy. I stumbled sideways. My damned trick knee gave out on me and I went crashing down like a great, stupid lump! I was only unconscious for a second, but I knew that my assailant was still there and was about to finish me off, maybe, when out of nowhere came this lad. He decked the villain, who then turned tail and ran. Needless to say, it was the young vicomte who was so handy with his fives, to use boxing cant.”
Emily’s kneading hand moved up to his knee and he gave another groan, but this was of gratitude as she eased the tight, throbbing pain. He had twisted the damn knee too as he went down. It made him feel damnably old, going down like that and having a young sprig come to his rescue.
Marchant had called him “sir” as he helped him up and shouted for aid from the watch. The lad had gazed at him with obvious compassion in his eyes, barely visible in the darkness of that damp alley.
Baxter opened his eyes to see the pursed, rosy lips and concentration on Emily’s smooth face as she kneaded and massaged his sore knee. She had taken his leg across her lap, and he thought how shocked society would be to see him in such close proximity to his wife again, the wife from whom everyone knew he was separated. There was a domestic intimacy in their position that reminded him of days gone by: happy days, contented days, irrecoverable days.
And yet he had no desire to draw away from her. He had long regretted the animosity between them, though he admitted his own part in keeping it going. Maybe this was an opportunity to establish a more mature footing to their separation. He was ready for that if she was.
Suddenly her bare hands—she had stripped off her gloves once Marchant and Belle had departed—on his leg seemed highly improper. He watched in fascination as her delicate, fine-boned hands moved up and down, her thumbs pressing into the muscle and joint of his knee. Occasionally they would stray up his thigh and massage the muscles that had taken a beating from the strain on his knee. She had the touch of an angel, and as the warmth of her hands penetrated through his breeches, he felt the first unmistakable pulse of arousal, as his loins tightened in response to her gentle touch. He badly wanted to surrender to the heat of desire, but common sense doused him with cold reality. This would not do!
“That’s enough,” he said, jerking his leg away from her and testing his foot on the floor.
Less was staring at him with amusement in his half-closed eyes. So nice that his friend was enjoying his obvious discomfort, Baxter thought, but then he caught Emily’s expression, a quickly masked hurt at his abruptness. Damn! He hadn’t intended to hurt her feelings; hadn’t really thought he still could! “That seems much better,” Baxter said. “Thank you, Emily. I had forgotten how efficacious your touch is.” He tried a smile and directed it at her.
An answering smile lit up her brown eyes. Their gazes locked for a few moments. Unspoken, they both felt a shaky truce had been effected. It was time, Baxter thought, and he was glad, especially since they would likely be meeting often since their social circles overlapped. There was nothing left between them now, but perhaps they could manage friendship. If only they had tried to heal their rift years ago.
Less broke into the silence. “Now, tell her about the other attempts on your life, Baxter.”
The marquess cast a glowering look at him. “You have not been telling stories to Emily, have you?”
“Just the truth. Come, Baxter, it is the truth.”
“Random chance,” he said airily.
“Random chance three times,” Less snorted.
Emily smiled up at her husband from her perch, where Belle had sat just minutes before. “You forget how well I know you, Baxter,” she said, laying one hand on his knee. “You are hiding something from us.”
Baxter stared down at her. For a moment he felt married again, that bond that went beyond sexual intercourse, beyond mere companionship to a meeting of the souls. It was what he and Emily had shared from the beginning, that sensation that their hearts were bound together by ties that went so deep, to sunder them would be death.
But they hadn’t died when they separated. Or at least not outwardly. She had retreated to Yorkshire—at his insistence, he remembered with some shame—and he had gone traveling. None of that would have been necessary if they hadn’t drawn apart to the point that their marriage was a farce. What had changed her? She had gone from the sweet, carefree Yorkshire girl he had married to a solemn, brooding, unhappy woman. Had she fallen out of love with him? That is what he had believed in his anger, and she had given him no reason to think otherwise.
And yet here she was, sitting at his knee, begging him to tell her if he was in danger. He was, mortal danger, but it was no different than it had been for years, ever since he had taken on a certain job. She must never know about that though, for to know would be to enter peril herself, and he had sworn never to endanger another person, least of all someone he had loved so very much.
“Less is a clucking mother hen, Em, and I’m sorry if he has worried you unnecessarily.” Too late he realized he had fallen back into the easy manner of address toward her. He had always called her Em or simply “my love.” He glanced down at her, the Cupid’s bow of her pursed lips, wondering if she would object to the familiarity.
• • •
“I don’t think it is so unnecessary,” Emily said with a worried frown. She sighed and shook her head. Why was she worried about him? God only knew how she had dreaded seeing him again when she returned to town. She could admit that to herself now, as it seemed there was to be a truce, the horrible words and recriminations between them at their last meeting a thing of the past and not to be referred to, though she would never forget them, not if she lived another fifty years.
But why this feeling of responsibility to him? They had agreed to a separation and abided by it for years, but now, simply because she had returned to London, his mother had decided they were to get back together and Less was making her a party to his worries for his friend.
“Will you not tell us what has put you in danger?” Emily asked.
Her husband sighed. “There is nothing to tell. Emily, I am fine. When have I ever needed help?”
“Never, of course. You are beyond help; is that not what you have oft told me? Less, we must be going. Baxter has business to attend to, no doubt?”
Lessington opened one eye, then sighed and stood. He clucked his tongue, as if over two fractious children, but straightened his cuffs and bowed to his friend. “Do not get up, Baxter, old man. I hope your ankle and knee are not feeling better soon, as they will keep you safely inside a carriage for some time. Come, my dear. Perhaps his mistress can talk some sense into him if his wife cannot!”
Chapter Six
What am I to do? Emily thought as she strolled the confines of the small fenced park across from the town house. Her maid sat a discreet distance away, knowing herself to be not needed for the moment. The glittering green of an early spring day was advancing toward evening, with the slanting sun lighting new-leafed trees with a verdant glow. A light breeze riffled through a sapling, sending the new fronds dancing.
Emily sighed and paced. It was not Yorkshire, she thought—not the long, wild walks of springtimes past, when new life after a long, hard winter seemed like a miracle—but it was
the best London had to offer, and earlier than the northern counties. It was barely March and already flowers bloomed. A garden of spring bulbs in a neglected corner caught her attention and she strolled over to it. She bent down to brush some wet, dead leaves from the previous autumn away from the green buds pushing up through the damp earth.
So should I have tended my marriage, she thought, with gentleness and care instead of hurt and withdrawal. Seeing Baxter had been the catalyst of a bout of introspection that was now bearing fruit of a rich and strange sort. Had she ever stopped loving him? No. She had been angry at times. She had hated the sight of him occasionally. But she had never stopped loving him and had never stopped wishing he would come back to her.
A stiffening breeze tugged at her elegant bonnet and swirled the skirt of her light pelisse, but still she wandered along the meandering pathways. The sky darkened, the breeze chilled, but she paced on.
He was older, there was no disguising that. There were lines under his eyes and beside his mouth, and the slight slackening of the skin under his chin betrayed the passing years. But gazing at him was more precious for that. How could they have let so much time go past and not healed the rift between them? And now too much time had passed. Baxter was set in his ways and she in hers, and the best she could hope for was the truce they had silently agreed to today. It was good to speak with him and to touch him.
It was always good to touch him. If only they had done more of that—more touching and much more talking—during the long years while their marriage dwindled to cool civility and distant courtesy. Or even if they had raged at each other about the things that were really bothering them. Instead they had been oh, so polite, with occasional retreats into distant bitterness, until finally there was nothing left but coldness. Except for that final blaze of anger and the hurtful words he had said to her as he virtually ordered her to leave Brockwith Manor and hie herself to Yorkshire.
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