“You will be made to heel,” James insisted icily, “though I admire a bit of tenacity in a young woman. It leaves something for me to enjoy at my leisure. Bringing you to obedience shall be a most pleasurable task.”
A bitter laugh rippled from the back of his throat, sending a shiver of displeasure down Emmy’s spine.
“I will not be brought to heel, by you or anyone,” she snapped, wrenching her hand away from his. Turning, she moved away from him, toward the exit of the gardens, only to find that Nora was no longer there. Panic coursed through her veins, her eyes glancing anxiously around for her lost sister.
With a cruel look upon his face, the viscount lunged for Emmy, snatching up her wrist before she had time to fight back.
Twisting it in a painful, degrading manner that made her wince and bend toward him, he brought his face close to hers until she could feel his hot breath upon her skin.
“Your beloved sister is not here—I have seen to that, thanks to your eternally willing mother,” he hissed. “You will do as you’re told, whether you like it or not, Miss Emmeline. And, I promise you now, you will not like it, unless you are obedient.”
Emmy felt embarrassed tears spring to her eyes, though she tried to push them back. Tremors of pain shot through her nerves as he twisted her wrist harder, forcing her to move closer to him to relieve some of the agony.
Just then, Emmy felt James roughly pushed aside, the movement tugging her arm with him, though he let go at the last moment, a surprised expression on his face. Ambrose was standing a short distance away, his hand gripping James’ arm.
“What on earth do you think you are doing, sir?” Ambrose asked sternly, his grip tightening on James’ arm.
James glanced down at the well-dressed, gentlemanly figure of Ambrose, his expression morphing once more into a mask of pure propriety. “You simply caught us in a moment of passion, sir,” he replied, though it was clear Ambrose didn’t believe a word.
“I know passion, and that is not what was afoot here,” Ambrose remarked, looking to Emmy. “Are you well, Miss Emmeline? Has this man done you harm?”
Emmy shook her head shamefully. “Nothing I cannot endure, Mr Wyndham.”
“I should see you in front of a magistrate for these coarse actions, sir,” Ambrose said angrily, refusing to release his grip. “This young woman is kinder than you deserve, given what I have just seen. I am not so forgiving.”
“You do not know what you have seen, Mr Wyndham,” James retorted. “You have seen only what you wished to see. Perhaps I was mistaken as to the nature of your affections, Miss Emmeline—it seems you have an entire menagerie of gentlemen at your beck and call.”
Fury flared up in Ambrose’s emerald eyes. “You will not speak to her in that manner!” he demanded. “This woman is the fiancée of my deceased brother. I have known her since she was an infant, and I will not see or hear her be treated in a manner I find utterly repugnant. Indeed, I shall go into the house this instant and inform Lord and Lady Nightingale of what I have witnessed, unless you make yourself scarce this instant!”
For the first time, Emmy saw a flicker of concern pass across the twisted features of James.
Ambrose was a gentleman, after all, who had seen an unprecedented attack via James’ hand.
Undoubtedly, Lord and Lady Nightingale would believe the word of Ambrose over any that James might utter, despite Lady Nightingale’s desire to see him as part of the extended family.
“Very well, Mr Wyndham, I see that I am somewhat out of my depth here,” James muttered grimly, giving a faint bow. “I shall make my excuses to the Nightingale family, and then I shall depart as soon as I can gather my things. I trust that is agreeable to you?” His tone was frosty, his gaze even more so.
Ambrose nodded curtly. “The sooner, the better, sir.”
With that, James took his leave of Emmy and Ambrose, heading for the house. Emmy watched him go, though she could not feel the triumph she knew she ought to feel in seeing him leave.
There was too much uncertainty. James was a cunning man, that much was clear, and she did not believe him to be the type of man to give up without a fight.
No, there was definitely something fishy about his willingness to depart.
James had made it very clear that he wished to break Emmy as though she were an unruly horse needing to be brought to her knees. It did not make sense that he should go without doing so.
Concern bristled through Emmy’s veins; she just hoped that James would not go straight to Lady Nightingale and offer a proposal before anyone could say anything to the contrary.
“Are you sure you are quite well, Miss Emmeline?” Ambrose asked once James was out of sight.
Emmy nodded, though her wrist still throbbed. “I am certain, Mr Wyndham, though I thank you for your kind concern. Although, I must thank you for stepping in—I am delighted to see that he is leaving at last. That man has quite overstayed his welcome,” she replied, giving Ambrose a tight smile.
“And how is your sister, Lady Hodge?” he ventured, though the latter two words seemed to stick in his throat as though he did not like the way they sounded.
Emmy frowned, wondering what the cause of such discomfort could be. “My sister is well, Mr Wyndham. Indeed, I think she should be around here somewhere. She was supposed to be chaperoning myself and Lord Fitzroy, but I believe my mother called her away,” she explained.
A sorrowful expression passed across Ambrose’s face. “Never mind, Miss Emmeline. I trust our paths shall cross again soon when your mother is otherwise engaged,” he laughed, but the amusement did not reach his eyes.
There was a look there that had Emmy quite confused. It was a look of longing—an unmistakeable flicker of remorse.
Chapter Twenty
New lovers
Chapter 20
Mr Smith grimaced as he strapped his arm up, feeling the dull ache from the healing gunshot wound.
James had landed quite the punch when they grappled on the ground, and it was still giving him some grief, even now. Still, Mr Smith knew that he had won the fight and defended the honour of Emmy and her sister—that was worth any pain that could be inflicted on a mortal man.
Through the trees, he heard the faint sound of hooves on the driveway leading up to Davenham Park.
Drawn out by the sound, he wandered along the riverbank until he could find a gap between the trunks where he might see what was going on.
It was early afternoon, the sun searing down onto the earth below, baking the ground, making the air shimmer like liquid silver.
To Mr Smith’s surprise, he saw the painfully familiar figure of James stepping out of the house, his valets going on ahead, laden with luggage.
Lady Nightingale was standing on the doorstep of the house entrance, holding a handkerchief to her face, her high-pitched voice audible even at a considerable distance.
“Are you sure you will not stay, Lord Fitzroy? My sons were ever so eager to take you out to the finest shooting spots in Cheshire,” she cried. “Are you sure there is not something the matter? Is it my daughter, Miss Emmeline? She can be talked around, I am certain of it. She is merely headstrong, as most young girls are. If she has offended you in some way, I can ensure she apologises and is properly punished for her insolence,” she bellowed after the departing figure, who had a grim look about him.
James turned. “It is nothing your daughter, nor any of your family, have done, Lady Nightingale. You have been the epitome of welcome and hospitality, and I am grateful for the kindness you have shown me in my brief stay with you. It is a family matter of my own that I must attend to at some haste. Please do accept my sincerest apologies for this abrupt departure.”
“But there was no messenger this morning, Lord Fitzroy. How could a message have come to you?” Lady Nightingale questioned, her pitch shrill.
“Lady Nightingale, I received word some days ago, but I have sadly reached the moment where I can put it off no longer. I had hopes that
a proposal might have been resolved far sooner than either you or I were able to forge it and, alas, I can stay no longer to see such a thing through,” James explained, though Mr Smith knew he was lying through his teeth. “But, be assured, I shall return at the earliest convenience to pick up proceedings where we left off.”
Mr Smith frowned, not knowing what James meant. After the events of the previous evening, it did not seem possible that James should be allowed to return to Davenham Park at all.
Yet here was Lady Nightingale, sobbing into a handkerchief, delighted by the prospect of such a man returning.
“Of course you must, Lord Fitzroy,” Lady Nightingale wept. “I shall ensure that my daughter is eagerly awaiting such a return, and please do not mind her occasional unruliness. I find it to be part of her charm.”
“As do I, Lady Nightingale. As do I,” said James, darkly.
Lady Nightingale, however, did not seem to notice the strange tone in the tall man’s voice, but Mr Smith heard it. The very sound of it turned his stomach. Just as he imagined on the first day he had laid eyes upon him, Mr Smith felt as though James were a predator circling prey, preparing to strike.
Still, Mr Smith could not help but feel joy at the knowledge that James was leaving, at least for a short while.
Selfishly, he knew it meant that Emmy would return to him, whether it simply be by letter or in person.
With a smile, he hoped it would be the latter. There was no sordid motive to his desire to see her; he merely adored the very sight of her and the sound of her voice as she spoke of something she loved, whether it be novels, music, or dancing. There was still so much he wanted to know about her, and now that window of opportunity had opened up again.
However, he knew that he was not the only one who was besotted with a Nightingale daughter. Earlier that day, he had seen Ambrose stride back through the woodland, a remorseful expression upon his face. Given their last encounter, Mr Smith had given him a wide berth, but he could not help seeing the emotion etched across the man’s face and the frustrated purpose with which he walked through the forest, snapping his cane against the heads of several innocent flowers.
Mr Smith knew the feeling all too well. It seemed Ambrose was in love with a woman even more impossible to obtain than Emmy. Here Lady Hodge was undoubtedly the object of desire. Perhaps, Mr Smith mused, there had always been affection there, but he had not been around long enough to know if that were true or not. Regardless, theirs was a hopeless romance. Nora was married to a powerful, possessive man, and Ambrose had little to offer in the way of an alternative should Nora divorce and find herself cast-out from society. Besides, Mr Smith had a feeling that Hugh would never permit something as vulgar as divorce. Not whilst he still drew breath.
Mr Smith felt sorry for the star-crossed pair, wishing life and love were a little fairer.
Returning to his hermitage, Mr Smith sat in front of the fire, taking out his bible for the first time in what seemed like forever.
Trying to focus, he turned the pages, reciting the lines of scripture with silent intent, allowing them to sink in. Now more than ever he felt as though Emmy were his salvation, rather than anything he might read on the pages before him, but he knew it was blasphemous to believe so.
Besides, given the situation he was in, he knew he needed every iota of help he could get from any deity that was listening.
As he read over the words, starting at the beginning of the Old Testament and working through, he became aware of the minutes stretching into hours.
Around mid-afternoon he paused, lifting his head to the sound of a twig cracking outside. It went off like a gunshot, disturbing his peace. Intrigued, Mr Smith got up and put the bible to one side before stepping out of the stone cottage and glancing around.
The forest was still, with nothing but the roar of the waterfall and the chirp of flapping birds to fill his senses. He frowned, puzzled by the noise that had disturbed him. Having lived in the forest a long while now, he had grown used to certain sights and sounds and sensations, and though it seemed strange to say, the snap of that twig had been an unnatural one. It had definitely been forged by the pressure of a foot breaking a branch in two, but he could see nobody in the vicinity.
Still curious, he wandered around the side of the rocky outcrop to check if Emmy had been the one to make the sound, but she was nowhere to be seen either. Just to be safe, he peered out over the lip of the river bank to check the treacherously swirling waters below, but there was nobody bobbing there, screaming for help. Everything was as it ought to be.
“Your mind is too distracted,” he told himself before returning to the hermitage.
He remained there for the rest of the day and well into the evening, his eyes absently watching as the shadows stretched across the doorway and the bright skies dimmed to an inky twilight. It had been an entirely uneventful day, given the excitement of the previous evening, but he was strangely glad to have a moment to himself.
Just as he was about to retire for the night, his attention was caught by the scuffle of leaves and the light thud of feet on the hard-packed mud, leading toward the hermitage. Wondering if it was the same culprit as earlier—a deer, or a particularly heavy fox, perhaps—he stepped outside, only to freeze in the doorway.
Emmy was walking towards him, drenched in silver moonlight, the iridescence gleaming off the white muslin of her dress.
For a moment, he wondered if he was imagining things. She could not be real, surely? This was certainly an angel, or an illusion, heading in his direction.
Only when she paused in front of him, gasping in the crisp night air, her bosom rising and falling with anxiety, did he know she was real. A nervous smile played upon her lips, a glitter twinkling in her dark eyes.
“My angel,” she whispered, lifting her hands to his face. As soon as her smooth skin made contact with his stubbled jaw he sighed, feeling all the weight of his suffering and pain slide away. With her by his side, everything seemed better, everything seemed easier to bear.
“I thought you a dream, Miss Emmeline,” he whispered back, cupping her face in his strong, rough hands. “I am only sorry that my hands are so coarse. You deserve finer hands than mine,” he murmured, though he did not take them away. He could not.
“I would not have any other hands upon my face, Mr Smith,” she sighed, her dark eyes looking up into his with such adoration he thought his heart might burst from the pure love that coursed through his veins.
He gazed at her for as long as he dared, brushing his thumb against the rosy apples of her cheeks, wondering what it would be like to kiss her full, bitten-red lips. It was a step too far, across a line they had already crossed, but he could not hold back the emotions he felt rising up within him—there was no going back now for either of them.
“Miss Emmeline, I know I should not, and I know you will not consent—as you rightly should not—but I feel myself compelled to ask...” He paused breathlessly. “Miss Emmeline, might I… might I kiss you?”
Emmy smiled. “I hoped you would ask. Oh, how I hoped you would ask,” she breathed. “Kiss me, and make it real.”
Slowly, Mr Smith lifted her chin and leant in towards her, one hand cupping her cheek tenderly. With a smile upon her face, Emmy’s dark eyes closed in anticipation as Mr Smith’s lips grazed hers for the very first time. Sparks ignited throughout his body at the friction of his mouth on hers and the sensation of her body.
They kissed with the intensity of new lovers—nervous and excited, all at once. Deep down, he knew it was more than improper, but he could not deny the love he felt for the young woman he held in his arms, nor could he deny the affection she felt for him. He could not stop what was happening, not unless she asked him to.
Together, they stood in the warm glow of the firelight, feeling the heat of the flickering flames against their bodies. All she could see and feel was him, and it was all she had ever wanted. Love crackled between them, Emmy’s heart and soul overwhelmed with feel
ing for the man who kissed her fiercely on the lips, whose body pressed against hers with such delectable heat that she thought she might truly be aflame.
“You are the most exquisite creature I have ever seen, Miss Emmeline,” Mr Smith whispered. “I have never seen anything more perfect in all my life. Should I die this very moment, I would be eternally content.”
She wrapped herself in his embrace, smiling against his neck. “Do not die, Mr Smith. There is still so much more for us to share,” she murmured innocently.
He laughed softly, his breath tickling her ear. “Whatever you wish, Miss Emmeline.”
“Please, call me Emmy,” she insisted, looking lovingly into his eyes.
“If you are Emmy to me, my love, then to you I am Gil,” he returned, lifting her chin so he could kiss her firmly on the lips.
Lady of a Recluse Earl Page 17
