Lady of a Recluse Earl

by Mirella Tinley

  “Mr Smith,” she whispered to herself, knowing it to be him.

  For almost a week, she had been forced to picture the face of Mr Smith when the last image she had of him was a foggy-eyed, waxy-fleshed, limp-limbed mass of blood and pain. Indeed, she was grateful to see that the clothes he wore held no trace of the crimson that had soaked his shirt that night.

  Even from that distance, she could tell he was looking up at the house. In a moment of private fantasy, she imagined those striking blue eyes scanning the windows, looking for her, wanting to seek out the angel who had held his hand and whispered soothing words in his hour of need.

  A blush coloured her cheeks at the very audacity of the thought.

  Still, checking the clock on the wall, she knew it might be her only opportunity to slip out of the house unseen. It would be an hour or two before breakfast, giving her plenty of time to get to the hermitage and back before anyone suspected anything.

  Hastily, she pulled a dress over her nightgown, not bothering with any of her usual undergarments before wrapping a long, flowing coat about herself and buttoning it below the bust. Dispensing with a bonnet, she pushed an ivory slide into her hair, holding it into place on top of her head, though it was somewhat unkempt, several tendrils tumbling loose.

  In truth, it would have to do. Besides, she was certain Mr Smith wouldn’t mind, given his own relaxed state of appearance.

  With her heart beating quicker, she slipped out of the bedchamber and onto the landing, hurrying to the top of the stairs before any of the maids saw her.

  She ducked down as a valet passed on his way to the kitchens. Thankfully, he did not see her, his mind evidently elsewhere.

  With a flutter of elation filling her soul, she carefully let herself out of the front door and raced away toward the woods, casting several anxious glances back at the house to make sure she wasn’t being watched by anyone in the windows.

  Reaching the entrance to the woods, she was almost disappointed to find that the figure of Mr Smith was no longer standing there.

  For some reason, she had hoped he might be, as though he were waiting there, especially for her.

  Regardless of the failing in her romantic fantasy, she knew precisely where to find him. With his injuries as bad as they were, there was no way that Mr Smith would stray too far from the hermitage.

  No, she would find him there, she was sure of it.

  Taking the path along the riverbank, she reached the familiar rocky outcrop in no time, skirting around it to reach the narrow, damp trail leading to the quaint stone house that served as Mr Smith’s home. The roar of the waterfall echoed in her ears, drowning out everything else as she approached the front door of the small building.

  She knocked.

  For a moment or two, there was a shuffling sound inside the house before the creak of the door opening startled Emmy’s senses.

  Immediately, she wanted to turn around and go back the way she had come, feeling foolish for her wayward antics, but something within her kept her rooted to the spot.

  She would not run.

  “Miss Emmeline?” Mr Smith asked, though there was not as much surprise in his voice as there had been on previous occasions. This time, there was something else—it was a softer sound, but she could not put her finger on what it was.

  “Mr Smith, please do forgive my early intrusion—I wished to enquire as to your welfare,” she explained hurriedly, tripping over her words.

  Mr Smith left her remarkably tongue-tied, and it seemed there was no cure for it. Indeed, the more she looked at his handsome face, freshly shaven despite the fact he only had one fully functioning arm, the more tongue-tied she became. There was something in the piercing blue of his eyes that drew her in, making her unable to look away.

  For the first time, she noticed he had beautifully long, dark lashes, which framed the almost sad quality of his eyes, the sight of them making her breaths a little sharper, her chest a little tighter, her pulse a little quicker.

  “You are too kind, Miss Emmeline,” said Mr Smith warmly, his gaze steady. “Although, I believe you understand that I must ask you to depart before anyone notices you are out here alone. It would not do either of us any good to be discovered so,” he added, though there was no anger or malice in his words.

  “Mr Smith, I must see that you are quite well before I can leave the pleasure of your company,” she insisted, taking an emboldened breath. “My family will not have risen yet. I will not be missed for some time, I assure you.”

  Mr Smith smiled, the expression brightening every feature of his handsome face. “I am quite well, Miss Emmeline. Lucky to be so, but I am certainly on the mend,” he promised, opening the door wide so she could get a better view of him.

  Beneath his flowing white shirt, she could see that his arm was bandaged, but there was no blood to be seen, and the movement in his muscles did not seem to have suffered much.

  He raised his hands, as if to show her that everything was fine, but she could not quite believe it.

  She had watched a bullet tear through his skin and seen him lying flat out on the ground, barely able to draw breath. The fact that he was standing before her now seemed impossible.

  “I do not know if my mind is playing a cruel trick on me, Mr Smith,” she whispered, stepping forward.

  “Whatever do you mean, Miss Emmeline?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

  They were far closer than they ought to have been, but Mr Smith did not move away, allowing Emmy her moment to ensure he really was there. She looked up at him, surprised by the term of endearment he had used.

  “Mr Smith,” she murmured, “I cannot be sure you are not a callous vision sent to haunt me for the responsibility I carry for putting you in harm’s way.”

  “I am no vision, Miss Emmeline,” Mr Smith assured her. “I am exactly as you see me.”

  Steeling herself, she reached out and touched the soft fabric of his shirt, just where the bandages were showing through. Slowly, she let her fingertips trace along the contours of his broad shoulders, working inwards, until her palms curved gently around the base of his neck. He did not move away, though his whole body tensed in surprise. She could feel the strain of the muscles beneath the cotton shifting with the tension of staying put as he let her touch him.

  “You should not touch me so, Miss Emmeline,” he whispered, though his eyes closed momentarily in an expression close to bliss. Spurred on, she traced her fingertips upwards until she held his face in her hands.

  Emmy smiled, her heart thundering so hard she thought she might explode with joy. “You really are here, Mr Smith.”

  “I am, Miss Emmeline, but this is not proper,” he said, almost reluctantly, as he reached up to take her hands in his, drawing them away from his face.

  “You should not be here. You must return to the house before anyone notices you are gone. Please, do not take my words in offence but simply heed them in the kind manner they are intended.” He lifted one hand to his lips and kissed the soft, smooth skin with the utmost delicacy. A shiver rippled through Emmy’s body, electricity bristling through every cell and nerve from that one delicious epicentre.

  “I will go, Mr Smith, on the proviso that I may return,” Emmy countered, unwilling to draw her hands away from Mr Smith’s.

  No man had ever held her hands like that before, and she did not wish it to end.

  Mr Smith sighed. “I do not believe it is a good idea, Miss Emmeline, but I know I cannot dissuade you. If there is to be a next time, I would advise bringing your sister with you.”

  Emmy smiled. “I will endeavour to do so, Mr Smith,” she replied, trying out the same term of endearment. “I shall look forward to our next meeting in the hopes that we may have more time to speak with one another.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Miss Emmeline,” he said, his blue eyes never leaving hers as he planted another tender kiss upon her hand.

  Even as she walked away, the sensation lingered long after h
is lips had drawn away. Indeed, her entire body seemed to pulse and bristle at the memory of his lips on her skin, delivering a burning kiss to set her soul alight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shivers

  Chapter 13

  In the days that followed, Mr Smith found himself wandering through the woods early in the morning, pausing a moment by the entrance to the woodland path. His eyes turned up toward the darkened windows of Davenham Park, trailing across each pane, wondering which one held Emmeline Nightingale within.

  He knew it was inappropriate, but he could not help himself.

  Since the evening of the duel, he felt compelled to be as near to Emmy as he dared. Through the delirious haze of his blood loss and the foggy flurry of events that had ensued, she had been his guiding light, demanding he hold onto what fibres of consciousness remained inside him.

  Angelic in appearance, he had thought of her, keeping her image in his mind, replaying the sound of her voice. It had been his music—his grounding to the outside world when death seemed perilously close.

  The wound itself still ached a little, with stabbing pains finding their way down his arm, but he was otherwise well.

  Closing his eyes, allowing the breeze to wash over his tired features, he let his thoughts linger on the exhilarating sensation of her delicate hands on his skin and the way they had brushed across his neck, rising to his face. The way their eyes had met still sent shivers down his spine; her unwavering gaze locking with his.

  Although he was concerned by the thought of her return, given the indecency of such a meeting, he found he could not fight feeling a tremor of excitement.

  There was something about Emmy that he could not resist, though he knew he must. A woman like her did not need to trouble herself with a man like him in any respect. He was beneath her.

  Catching sight of her in the distance, moving stealthily down the rolling lawns toward him, he swiftly moved back the way he had come.

  He did not think she had seen him standing sentinel at the entrance to the woods, waiting for her like an eager little boy.

  It was still early, only just after dawn, with the riverbank path damp and muddy beneath his boots.

  In truth, it was his favourite time of day, with the light chorus of birdsong echoing through the rustling trees. The sound of the babbling river led him back home, his feet knowing the way with familiar intimacy. Before long, he arrived back at the quaint stone house and sat down on the bench outside, awaiting Emmy’s arrival.

  Upon the rolling lawns, she had been quite alone, as he had suspected she might be. Emmy was a headstrong young woman, seemingly oblivious to the rule of polite society, but there was a charm in her innocence. And so he had to improvise.

  It would not do for a man and a woman to be unchaperoned within the confines of a house, but perhaps they might be forgiven for speaking outside its walls under the ruse of a chance encounter.

  He waited, not knowing what to do with himself.

  No matter how he sat, or how he placed his legs and arms, he knew he did not look comfortable. Perhaps, he hoped, she would put it down to the pain of his healing injuries.

  Just then he heard a disturbance behind the rocky outcrop that led to his hermitage. He waited expectantly, but Emmy did not appear.

  A moment later, a scream pierced the air.

  A loud splash followed.

  Rising sharply, Mr Smith sprinted around the corner to see the mud churned up at the narrowest section of the rocky path. It had always been a treacherous route.

  Peering over the lip of the bank, he saw the flailing arms of Emmy beneath the surface of the turbulent water. It was a dangerous stretch of water, where the undertow from the swirling pool of the waterfall was at its strongest. Emmy had been caught in its vicious grasp, the current pulling her under, allowing her to catch only a moment of breath before dragging her beneath the surface again.

  Jumping to action, Mr Smith dove into the deep water, feeling the icy cold liquid surround him like a sudden blow to the face. He surfaced, keeping to the side of the bank, using the tangled roots of an old tree for purchase.

  He could not see Emmy, who had disappeared beneath the water. Impatiently, he waited for his moment to strike. It came a few seconds later as her face broke the surface.

  Reaching out with his wounded arm, he grasped for her thrashing hand, gripping it tight, though the tension sent a blinding bolt of pain through his body. Still, he did not let her go. He would not.

  Drawing on every ounce of strength he had, he hauled her out of the undertow, bringing her toward him.

  She was pale, her eyes rolling back into her head.

  Wrapping his arm around her, holding her securely, Mr Smith pulled her up onto the marginal slope of the bank.

  Ignoring his agony, he lay her back on the muddy surface, his arm still around her, before reaching up to grasp at a twisting branch that coiled down nearby.

  With all his might, he hauled her up the embankment, not stopping until she was safely on solid ground once more.

  “Miss Emmeline?” he said softly, pulling her more comfortably into his arms. Gazing down at her beautiful face, a shiver of panic coursed through him.

  She looked dead, her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, her body unmoving. It was a sight he had seen many times before, but he could not bear the thought of it happening to Emmy. “Miss Emmeline, please wake up,” he begged, stroking the damp strands of hair from her colourless face.

  “You cannot do this to me, Miss Emmeline. You must not die. I will not permit it,” he added, running through every prayer he knew in his mind, pleading with any deity who was listening to spare her life.

  A split-second later, she began to splutter, water trickling out of her mouth. Her eyes opened in surprise, blinking rapidly. She tried to sit up, but Mr Smith held her close, not wanting her to go into shock.

  “Mr Smith… I do not feel well,” she trailed off faintly, her eyes closing.

  He held her tighter, brushing his fingertips against her cheek, trying to rouse her once more. She stirred, her eyes opening again, her gaze resting on him. They stayed like that, locked in a close embrace, Emmy shivering in his arms.

  At each tremble of her body, he held her nearer, until there was no gap between them.

  Boldly, he placed a kiss upon her forehead, lingering there as long as he dared. He knew he had no right to do so, but the gratitude he felt at the revival of her was overwhelming, driving him toward his impulse.

  She smiled, leaning into the kiss.

  “I must get you back to the house, Miss Emmeline,” he whispered, pulling away. “You are freezing—I would not see you catch your death out here,” he added, before lifting her from the ground.

  Carrying her in his arms, he made his way through the woodland, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. It could wait.

  Emerging from the trees, he walked up to the looming façade of Davenham Park, taking her up to the back entrance of the kitchens.

  For his own sake, he didn’t want anyone to see them approach, nor did he want Emmy to get into any trouble.

  Knocking swiftly, he waited for a response, knowing the kitchen staff would be up and milling about. A moment later, Mrs Harbour opened the door and peered out suspiciously, her expression changing as soon as she saw the limp figure in Mr Smith’s arms.

  Mrs Harbour herself was not a figure of the Nightingale household he knew too well, but he had seen her picking herbs in the kitchen gardens from time to time and knew her name from the way the servants constantly shouted for her aid.

  She was a stout woman, with greying hair that was perpetually kept beneath a simple white bonnet of frilled cotton, and a beak-like nose that made her look more frightening than she was.

  “What on earth!” she cried, opening the door wide to allow Mr Smith inside.

  “Please forgive me, I came across Miss Emmeline in the woods. I fear she has taken a tumble into the water. She must have slipped along the riverbank,�
� Mr Smith explained, ever-conscious of her skin against his.

  In her sodden dress, he could see every contour beneath, though he kept his gaze away, knowing it was beyond improper to snatch a glimpse.

  “Goodness me, the goings-on in this house of late!” Mrs Harbour muttered, ushering Mr Smith and his charge through the humid warmth of the kitchens and out into the main house.

  When they arrived in the hallway that led to the entrance hall, passing several elegant looking rooms to the right, Mr Smith paused. Emmy was stirring in his arms, her eyes blinking slowly back into consciousness.