by Jane Goodger
She would simply have to let him know that he could marry her, that her father would have no objection—at least she didn’t think he would have an objection. Oh, it didn’t matter if she were an heiress and he was a gardener, not if they loved one another... Was it possible he didn’t love her? She couldn’t go up to him and ask, could she?
Clara headed to her room, hoping to quiz Jeanine about the moment she realized Charlie was in love with her. She found Jeanine going through the wardrobe and pulling out all Clara’s ball gowns, which only made Clara wince. She did not want to think about the ball, not at a time like this when it seemed her entire life hung in the balance.
“Jeanine, come away from there. I don’t want to even think about the ball tomorrow night. Perhaps we could just sit and talk.”
Her maid immediately stopped what she was doing. “It looks like you’ve got something buzzing about that head of yours,” Jeanine said.
“I do.” Clara took a seat at her tufted vanity chair and faced her maid. “How long have you known you loved Charlie?”
Jeanine’s cheeks instantly pinkened. “Oh, three years now.”
“Truly? You only began mentioning him to me last year.”
Jeanine shrugged. “It wasn’t something I wanted to discuss. Not until I knew he returned my feelings.”
“And how did you know that?”
“He brought my mother my saffron buns. I couldn’t go home that year; you’d been invited to that house party in Coventry. Remember? I was a bit upset, and he said, ‘I’ll bring ’em to your ma, Miss Parker.’ And that’s when I knew.”
Clara frowned. “Oh.”
“You see, my mother lives a good twenty miles from here and there is no easy way to go. No rail line or direct road. It took him two days, there and back, just to bring my mother saffron buns. That’s when I knew.”
Silly tears threatened Clara’s eyes. “Yes, that would do it, wouldn’t it?” She paused, worrying her lower lip a bit. “Has he ever said the words?”
“That he loves me? Nah,” Jeanine said, laughing. “I don’t need words to know.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice if he did say them?”
“I suppose it would be nice. He’s said other things, though. He once said the only thing he liked better than a day fishing was a day spent with me.” She giggled, sounding like a young girl. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. You know how much he loves to fish.”
Clara laughed, glad that Jeanine had found someone she understood—and who obviously understood her.
“I think I’ll go out and work a bit in the garden. It will keep my mind off of the ball.”
Jeanine laughed. She was one of the few people who understood how much Clara dreaded such events.
Though the sun was shining, it was a cold, blustery day and her garden looked rather sad. While she had been in London, Mr. Emory had prepared the garden for the winter, pruning back her roses and gathering seeds from plants that lived only one season in anticipation of the spring. Though the temperature rarely dipped below freezing in St. Ives, gardens lost their luster, the only brilliant color coming from the fire bushes that lined one walkway. If they had a hothouse, Clara would have plenty to work on, but as it was, there was little for her to do in the garden and no real reason to be out there at all.
When she reached the plot, she found herself alone and feeling a bit foolish for coming out at all. Walking along the gravel path, now littered with dead leaves, Clara felt uncommonly melancholy, as if the glory and joy of her garden would never again be realized. Strangely, Mr. Emory had continued to work land that wasn’t part of the garden plan, and Clara wondered what he was devising. Small disturbances stretched from the edge of the cultivated land outward, as if he’d driven a spade into the land again and again. Curious, Clara followed the path of the marks, noting the sharp slices in the earth, each about six inches apart, long rows that ended abruptly about twenty yards from their small pond.
Since Mr. Emory was not working, Clara continued walking toward the pond, imagining a small fountain in the middle. Wrapping her coat more tightly around her, she sat down on a small bench Mr. Emory had placed there, and could feel the cold iron even through her thick layers of clothing. The citizens of St. Ives were luckier than most residents of England, many of whom were likely experiencing the snow and ice of the winter season. Still, Clara found herself longing for those long, warm days of summer.
“Your mother wants a folly.”
Clara smiled upon hearing Mr. Emory’s warm baritone behind her. It was so breezy, she hadn’t heard his approach. She turned and looked up, screwing up her features and holding her hand over her eyes to block the bright sun. He stood there in silhouette, all brawn and strength, a shovel resting on his shoulder.
“A small folly might be charming,” she said, trying to steady the mad beating of her heart. “Perhaps we can build one after the hothouse is completed.”
He came around to the front of the bench and propped one foot on it, looking down at her with an unreadable expression. A sudden gust of wind nearly blew the hat from his head and he smiled crookedly as he wrestled it back on. “Seems cold, but where I grew up, this is what summer feels like.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Cumbria, not far from the Scottish border. We’d get snow starting in November. Likely snow on the ground even now.”
“I’ve never seen snow. I was hoping to in London. What’s it like? I imagine it’s lovely.”
“It’s cold, that’s for certain, and yes, it’s pretty. It’ll take your breath away, seeing the sun shining down after a storm, everything covered in white, the air so cold you can hardly breathe. St. Ives seems tropical compared to that.”
Clara drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs; it was hardly the most ladylike pose, but she cared not. “You must miss your family.”
“I have none,” he said matter-of-factly. “My father died when I was fifteen and my mother the day I was born.”
“What is your birthday? Have we missed it?”
“Just. October twenty-eighth I turned twenty-six.”
“As old as all that?” Clara asked, teasing him. She would have guessed him older, for he had a small amount of gray by his temples. “No one remembered, did they?”
“No one has in a very long time,” he said without the smallest bit of self-pity. Still, it made Clara’s heart break to know he was so alone. “Women tend to remember such things, and I have had no women in my life for many years. I vaguely remember my grandmother, a stern woman who smelled like peppermint.”
“And do you come from a long line of gardeners?”
He looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Clara wondered if he were ashamed of his profession. “I am the first,” he said with a small bow, as if he were introducing himself.
Clara wanted to ask him more about himself, but she sensed her questions would not be welcomed. Still, she did wonder how a man whose diction was nearly as fine as Lord Berkley’s ended up laboring in a garden. Clearly, he’d received some sort of education. Many families fell on hard times and lost everything, so perhaps Mr. Emory’s story was similar.
“Someday I hope to hear more, sir, but for now I’ll let you be.”
“And what of you? What are you doing out here alone, staring gloomily at the pond?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I am a bit out of sorts, if you must know. Lord Berkley issued a last-minute invitation to his ball. It’s well known he’s throwing the ball to find a bride. My mother is beside herself with joy.”
He let out a deep chuckle. “And you, less so, I take it.”
“I very much fear she will again begin her quest when all I really want—” She snapped her mouth shut, unwilling to go down that particular humiliating path again.
He let out a long sigh and sat down beside her, and Clara briefl
y squeezed her eyes shut. That sigh seemed to hold more meaning than many long speeches, and it suddenly became important that he not say whatever it was he was preparing to say.
“Mr. Emory, you do not have to make your speech. I have a tendency to see things, believe things, that can never be. In that way, I am more like my mother than I would like to admit. It is true, I did think more of our friendship than I should have—” He laid a finger on her lips and she gave him a hesitant look.
“Stop talking, Miss Anderson. Please.” When she raised her brows in question, he dropped his finger. “What were you supposed to think when nearly every time we were together, I molested you.” When she made to protest his characterization of their relationship, he smiled and showed her his index finger as a teasing warning, and she snapped her mouth shut. Another sigh, this one a sharp puff of air. “I need to say something to you, and that is I adore you, Miss Anderson. I think about you more than I should. I think about what it would be like if my life wasn’t what it is, if I were free to do what I wished. You cannot know, not now, what the reasons are for my silence. I pray someday I will be in a position to tell you. Only then will you understand why it is impossible for us to plan a future together. I have no future to offer to you.”
Clara did understand his words—she was not a dolt—but what she actually heard was that he wanted to marry her, but that something was holding him back, something that someday might be resolved. And that meant that someday they would be able to be together. She could hardly keep her heart from leaping out of her chest. “If you are in trouble, I may be able to help you,” she said.
Her words seemed to make him miserable. “God, you are too good, Miss Anderson.” He stared down at his fists, clenched together between his knees. “You may hate me someday.”
“I could never—”
His head snapped up and he appeared nearly angry. “You may. You likely will.”
Raising one eyebrow, she said, “You cannot make me hate you, Mr. Emory. No matter your deep, dark secret.” She was silent for a time, her thoughts buzzing about her head. “It isn’t murder, is it?”
“No.”
Another, worse, thought came to her. “Are you married?”
He let out a low chuckle. “No.”
Relief nearly made her weak. “Then I daresay there is nothing so horrible that I could not forgive you.”
He shook his head, a worrying gesture, for Clara couldn’t imagine what he was hiding that would cause her to cast aside her feelings for him. “Of all the women I have ever met, Miss Anderson, you deserve to be a lady. You are more worthy than any other.”
“That is where you are wrong. I will die before I marry one of those pompous prigs.”
He chuckled lightly as he looked away. “That is a rather dire prediction and one I pray does not come true.”
“It won’t, as I have no intention of marrying a title. It’s a mister for me or nothing.”
Chapter 11
If Clara hadn’t seemed quite so miserable about the prospect of going to a ball filled with the hated aristocracy, Nathaniel would have found it difficult to remain at the Anderson home while she was likely being ogled by titled gentlemen. His mistake was wandering to the front of the house that night, like some lovestruck fool, hoping he might catch a glimpse of her in her finery. Hiding about in bushes wasn’t the most dignified thing he had ever done, but he found he could not help himself. This…thing…that had happened to him was rather terrifying. He could not stop his heartbeat from speeding up when he saw her; nor could he stop the state of near-painful arousal whenever he allowed his mind to go where it shouldn’t. Worse, his heart ached for her nearly as much as his cock.
He loved her. He loved her and he was going to lose her. But at least he could enjoy her company a bit more before he was forced to tell her who he was. When he found the diamond, he would tell her everything and pray she could forgive him. His conscience bothered him more than he wished, but he’d be damned if he walked away now, not after all this time. The bloody diamond had to be in that small section of land he hadn’t yet had a chance to investigate.
A sharp rectangle of light showed on the front lawn from the well-lit parlor. Inside, he could see the younger daughter looking particularly pretty in a gown that looked like it cost a small fortune. Mr. Anderson turned his back to his daughter and snuck a drink of something, and Nathaniel smiled. The old dog was likely dreading this evening as much as his daughter. And then, the old man turned and smiled, and Nathaniel had a feeling Clara had just walked into the room, for there were very few people in the world who could resist smiling at her.
Nathaniel breathed in sharply, stunned by how beautiful she looked. Day after day he’d spent with her in the garden. He’d thought her beautiful in her plain clothes and that silly straw hat, but seeing her dressed in a rich burgundy ball gown that showed off her lovely curves, her hair in an intricate coiffure, he could hardly take his eyes from her. Suddenly, the thought that other men would be talking with her, dancing with her, touching her seemed unacceptable. My God, she would look lovely as mistress of Lion’s Gate. They would hold a ball, a celebration of the restoration of his estates and his tenants’ livings. Perhaps in a year or two, when things were looking better, when the farmers had a chance to increase their earnings, he would invite the entire region to meet his baroness.
In that moment, staring at her, he realized he wanted her there, by his side, until the day he died. And he also realized that his lies might have doomed his love before it even had a chance to show itself. He wished suddenly, fiercely, that his grandfather had never told him about the diamond. Perhaps he would have met Clara at an event, seen her at the opera, perhaps even attended the very ball she was now attending. Surely, he would have recognized her for the beauty she was. He had no relatives to object to their marriage, no one who would disown him if he married a commoner, and not only a commoner but one who came from such a family.
“I’ll make you understand,” he whispered as he watched her father lay a cloak across her shoulders. He closed his eyes and imagined himself there, in that room, bending his head to kiss her smooth shoulder, moving to her neck, bringing his hand around to her front and pulling her against him. Well, of course not with her parents in the room. He chuckled at that unsavory image.
For several long hours, Nathaniel lay awake, knowing he was waiting for the sound of the family’s carriage coming back. His lamp was still lit and he’d been trying to read, to no avail. It would be hours before they returned, perhaps not even until the sun was beginning to rise. All the balls he’d attended had ended in the wee hours of the morning, the eastern sky turning pink. He was leaning over to turn down his lamp when he heard the unmistakable sound of a carriage moving up the drive. It couldn’t be the Andersons returning; the ball would have just been getting under way.
Curious, he sat up and pulled on his boots before quickly donning his coat and heading outside to see who it was arriving at the Andersons’ at such an unseemly hour.
“’arriot, you’re our lash ’ope,” he heard a woman wail before a door closed firmly.
The Andersons’ garish carriage sat in front of the house with the driver and footman lingering, heads together as they talked. They looked up when he approached. “Home early,” Nathaniel said.
“Smoke?” the driver offered. Nathaniel took the cigar with thanks and bit off the end before holding it to the flame the driver held out. “They got thrown out on their tails.”
“Thrown out?” Nathaniel said, trying to stem his concern.
“I don’t like telling tales, but the mister and missus were as drunk as an ’and cart, they were. I think that’s why they tossed ’em out like so much garbage,” the footman said, then leaned forward and whispered, “From the look on Miss Clara’s face, I think she might ’ave done something. She looked like a cat that just ate a mouse. Now, Miss ’arriet, she seemed
right upset. No tears, mind you, but none too ’appy.”
Knowing Clara’s dislike of the aristocracy, Nathaniel thought it wouldn’t be too far a stretch of the imagination to think she might have gotten upset at some slight then let her opinion be known. “You don’t know what happened, then?”
The driver spit. “Nah. But, like I said, the two of ’em were drunk.”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said. “As a hand cart.” He chatted with the two men for a while before wishing them a good night and heading back to his room, only to see a shadow flitting toward his room that looked suspiciously like it was wearing a ball gown.
Walking stealthily behind her, he followed Clara as she went around the back of the shed. He watched, amused, as she tiptoed to his door and tapped lightly. “Mr. Emory?” she whispered harshly.
“Yes?”
Claire would have let out a scream, but a large hand covered her mouth before even the smallest of sounds could escape. She could feel, more than hear, him laughing at her, the scoundrel, but she was soon joining him. When he dropped his hand, he replaced it with his mouth, a soft, lingering kiss that managed to clear her mind of everything but him.
“Hello,” he said, drawing back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Tonight was an unmitigated disaster,” she said happily.
“So I heard. What happened?”
Clara leaned against the shed and he joined her there, his arm against her shoulder, warm and comforting and just slightly improper. They stared at the moon, a silver sliver in the sky, as she related the story of the ball, how her mother had gotten drunk and caused a scene, how her father had only made matters worse.
“So you see? It is finally over.”
“What is finally over?”
“My mother has given up the aristocracy! She hates them as much as I do. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Not particularly,” he muttered, then kissed her when she was about to protest. His kisses had a way of making her go instantly quiet. A low rumble of pure male satisfaction vibrated through him as he deepened the kiss and she became a rag doll in his arms. That was another thing that happened when he kissed her—she lost all feeling in her limbs, and all other feeling coalesced in her breasts and between her legs in a rather delightful way.
