“Which is precisely my point, Heath,” she said without missing a beat, so matter-of-fact, wholly unaware of his increasingly acute awareness of her. “I learned all those pursuits expected of me just so that I might justify why I should then be able to engage in activities that truly interested me. And so there was much I missed out upon.”
Heath had only ever taken Lady Emilia Aberdeen as one who’d proudly turned her nose up at Society’s constraints. She’d been free, where he’d been trapped by his responsibilities as the ducal heir. Or so he’d believed. Now he stared at the woman beside him, seeing her in a new light. Seeing her in ways he never had before. Finding that she, too, had been limited by Society’s constraints. Just as you yourself were… and still are. Heath worked his gaze over her face. “You may have honored those expectations, but you were also compelled to find your own interests and pleasures. And I?” A sad smile curved his lips. “I was ever the dutiful son mastering the names of Whitworth ancestors and reciting their accomplishments in Latin.” God, he’d hated Latin.
Emilia started.
“What is it?”
“It is just that…”
Heath stared at her expectantly. “You thought that I enjoyed each lesson I received or every responsibility handed down?” he predicted.
The pretty blush staining her cheeks indicated he’d hit the nail on the mark.
“Some of it I enjoyed. Some of it I did not. But where you asserted some control over those expectations of you, I dutifully accepted each lesson and responsibility as my lot.” Heath took a long swallow of his coffee. “And that, Emilia, is why you were different”—and braver and more interesting—“than my…” His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “How did you phrase it? Pious self.”
“I was teasing,” she said softly, an apology there.
Heath waved it off. “I know.” He’d only ever been treated with deference by everyone. Even his brothers had come to treat him differently. Not Renaud, the man who’d intended to marry the woman beside you, a voice needled at the back of his mind. And selfish bastard that Heath was, he forcibly shoved aside thoughts of his friend. “But you were not incorrect. I have lived a proper, staid life.”
“There is nothing wrong with proper or staid.”
He snorted.
“There isn’t,” she insisted, with such conviction that he almost believed her. “There is something comforting in it, even.”
Heath stiffened. Did Emilia realize even now that she spoke in veiled tones of the man who’d broken her heart?
Emilia went silent and rested her palm on his, once more. She glanced down at their linked hands. A charged energy crackled between them.
Heath’s heart knocked hard against his rib cage.
The feel of her hand on his and the warmth of that joining felt… right.
She was the first to break the connection. “Either way, given all that, you, too, know what it is to miss out on the fun of ice skating.”
Heath frowned. “Why do you assume I don’t know how to skate?”
She furrowed her brow. “Because, well…”
Because of who he was. Suddenly, the opinion she had of him grated. He might be a ducal heir, but blast and damn… he could have fun, too. Or he used to enjoy himself. “I assure you, I know how to ice skate.” At least, he didn’t believe a man forgot those skills. Surely it came as easy as riding?
Her eyes rounded. “You do?”
“Quite well.” There’d been a time when he’d even outdistanced his younger brother, the more athletic Graham.
“That is splendid!” The mischievous glimmer danced in her eyes and set off warning bells in his head. “It is decided.”
“What is decided?” he asked, straightening in his chair, already knowing he’d fallen into yet another damned trap.
Emilia plucked her brief list from the table. “I’ll need twenty minutes.” She shoved her chair back and, gathering up her book, started for the door.
“What is decided?” he repeated. “Twenty minutes for what?” he called after her, dread creeping in.
Spinning back, Emilia gave her eyes a roll. “Ice skating lessons.” Her face fell. “Never mind. You needn’t—” Her mouth trembled.
Heath held his palms up, warding off the evidence of her misery. “Good God, what is wrong with your lip? It’s quivering. You aren’t going to”—horror strangled his voice—“cry?”
“N-no.” Emilia blinked wildly, and a single drop streaked down her cheek.
Ask her what she’d like to spend her morn doing, and then do it. And what was the other? Do not upset the lady.
Only, from their two exchanges and now dining together, he acknowledged a truth he’d not fully considered until now: Spending time with Emilia Aberdeen could only be perilous, for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which being his transfixion on her siren’s mouth.
He swallowed a groan. “Very well. I’ll accompany you. Twenty minutes.”
“Splendid,” she replied, clapping her hands once. “I’ll meet you in the foyer shortly.”
As she sailed from the room, Heath narrowed his eyes. Why, that show had been just that… a show. A carefully crafted display to secure his company.
The minx had bested him again.
Chapter 6
A lady should only give her heart to a man she enjoys being with and who brings her joy.
Mrs. Matcher
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
“You are shameful. Pathetic. Witless.” The accusations spilled from Emilia’s lips, and she stabbed a finger at her own guilty reflection in the bevel mirror. “And weak. You are weak, too. You were most certainly not supposed to enjoy yourself.”
Emilia let her arm fall to her side.
And yet… she had enjoyed herself.
She swiped her bonnet from the dressing table and jammed it atop her head. “And with a gentleman who wants nothing to do with you,” she muttered. Wasn’t that always her way?
Everything about her exchange with Heath had been unexpected. Why, the gentleman she’d taken him to be would have been suitably horrified at having a guest—and a lady at that—climb atop the breakfast table and reposition his mother’s floral arrangement. Instead, he’d met her challenge by collecting his plate and joining her at the opposite side of the table.
Emilia slowly looped the end of one velvet bonnet ribbon over the other. She’d set out to teach Lord Heath—Heath—a lesson, and at some point between last night and their time together in the breakfast room, she’d found that she rather liked being with him. She recoiled. There it was.
The pieces she’d taken as fact—his pompousness, his inability to jest, his unwillingness to have her around as a girl—had all proven erroneous on her part. The serious little boy she recalled, tucked away in his lessons while all the other children had played on his family’s grounds, had proven capable of levity, after all. What was more disconcerting was the truth that they’d not been unalike growing up. They were, in fact, more alike than she’d ever credited.
Some of it I enjoyed. Some of it I did not. But where you asserted some control over those expectations of you, I dutifully accepted each lesson and responsibility as my lot.
Heath, however, did not see it that way.
I remember you as the girl who talked circles around your father until he agreed to allow the gypsies to stay on his property and return each summer for the annual village fair.
He saw them as different because of her few moments of rebellion and her willingness to challenge her parents. Emilia, however, was not deserving of that praise. For in reality, they had been the same in those regards—ducal children who’d bowed to the expectations placed upon them.
Emilia finished tying off her bonnet.
She found herself enjoying someone who understood what being the child of one of those exalted figures had been—and was still—like.
Even if he was a gentleman who’d avoided her through the years and paid her
attention now only at his mother’s bequest.
Suddenly looking forward to Lady Sutton’s house party, Emilia gathered her red velvet cloak and tossed it around her shoulders. Humming the cheerful, upbeat melody of “I Saw Three Ships,” Emilia next collected her leather gloves and started from her room. There was still a welcoming quiet in the halls while the other guests slept on. Part of the reason she’d taken to waking early each morn was so she could be assured she wouldn’t be bothered by gossips—her mother included. The early hours so hated by the ton belonged solely to Emilia.
Only… not all the ton were late to rise.
Heath was also awake.
That is because his mother ordered him awake and in the breakfast room, you nitwit.
She’d do well to remember that. All of this, any time they spent together, was a pretense. He was the dutiful son cheering up the brokenhearted spinster.
Strengthened by that reminder, Emilia hurried the remainder of the way until she neared the top of the stairwell, where voices drifted toward her.
“Is this where you want it?” Heath’s question was met with a child’s giggle.
“You are being silly. If it is there, no one will walk under it, Heath.”
“Being complicit in mischief I trust qualifies me to be called Uncle Heath,” he drawled.
Intrigued, Emilia drifted closer and then hovered at the top of the stairway. Two pairs of skates lay forgotten at the bottom step. Emilia inched closer, and hugging the wall, she stared at the unlikely trio below.
Already wearing his cloak and Oxonian hat, Heath stood with a bough of yellowish flowers and white berries.
Near an age of ten or eleven, a pair of girls stared expectantly at him. “You are being deliberately evasive, Uncle Heath,” one of the dark-haired girls said flatly. She jabbed a finger at the doorway. “There,” she directed, like a military commander at battle.
The little group looked as one at the area in question.
Her curiosity redoubled, and Emilia angled her head to better see the reason for Heath’s debate with his nieces.
“If you would, hang it there, please,” one of the children urged.
The slightly smaller of the pair sighed. “Yes, hang it there and be done with it already.”
“The front doorway. Uh… I trust that is… too obvious.” He gentled the rejection with a smile.
“That is the point of mistletoe,” one of the girls said with a toss of her head. “For people to find themselves caught under it.” She grunted as her sister jammed an elbow into her side.
“It is a silly tradition, Creda.”
“Silly? Silly is Uncle Heath attempting to affix it atop a mirror against a wall where no one will see it or walk under it.”
He frowned. “Beg pardon,” he said, with such a wounded expression that Emilia felt a smile tug her lips up.
The quarreling pair of sisters promptly ignored him. “If you find it silly, Iris, then you needn’t be here.” Creda gave a dismissive clap of her hands. “Where were we, Uncle Heath?”
Both girls stared expectantly at him.
“I was suggesting that we hang the ball—”
“The mistletoe,” Creda supplied for him.
“Here.” Heath hung the looped ribbon around the ornate work of a gilded mirror affixed to the wall.
Iris abandoned her negligent repose. “Well, who in blazes is going to walk under that?” she demanded, holding her palms up. “I mean, how would that even work? Would a person who looked in the mirror have to kiss their own reflection?”
“I… I…” He looked pained, and despite the particular glee she’d found in the whole endearing exchange, Emilia took mercy. She stepped out from the shadows and resumed her descent.
“Might I suggest a compromise?” she called down.
Three sets of eyes went whipping up.
Heath’s eyes lit, and she paused at the unexpectedness of that response. Heath, whose gaze had only ever been averted or aloof when she was near. Only… no… there could be no mistaking that unexpected light there because of… her. A little fluttering started low in her belly.
Silly. He is simply grateful for your intervention. That compelled her forward. Emilia reached the bottom of the staircase and stopped. “Hullo,” she greeted the twins.
“You are Lady Emilia, are you not?” Creda pressed, skipping over polite greetings.
It appeared Emilia’s name was infamous even with children. “I am,” she confirmed, turning her attention to the young girl.
Creda beamed. “Splendid! My mother speaks quite highly of you.” With that avowal, she darted over to her uncle’s side, snatched the bough from his fingers, and dashed back to Emilia.
“I believe this is where I’m doubly offended,” he muttered.
Emilia’s shoulders shook with silent mirth. “I trust you are searching for the ideal location for your mistletoe?” she asked, accepting the small holiday arrangement by the crimson ribbon. “The splendid thing about Lady Sutton’s…” She paused. These girls had recently become stepgrandchildren to the hostess. “Your grandmother’s household,” she neatly corrected, “is that there are clever little nooks and adornments where one can hang all manner of”—she winked—“anything.”
“Uncle Heath has spoken quite adamantly against the front doorway.”
“As much as it pains me to agree with Lord Heath, I must confess the front doorway is not the ideal location for mistletoe.”
Previously disengaged in the process, Iris, a shoulder propped against the wall, called over, “And why ever not?”
“Well, you see,” Emilia went on, moving deeper into the massive foyer, “everyone walks through the front doors, oftentimes in groups. Mothers and sons and fathers and daughters. Brothers and sisters.”
Both girls’ faces pulled in a grimace. “Kissing one’s brother?” they spoke in unison.
“I can see how I may have been incorrect about the placement, then,” Creda mumbled.
Emilia’s lips again twitched. “My point is not ‘who’ one”—she stole a glance from the corner of her eye at Heath—“meets under the mistletoe.” Her cheeks warmed. “But rather, the unexpectedness of that… that… meeting.”
“That kiss,” Iris said, rolling her eyes.
For one wistful moment, Emilia envied the girl her youth and innocence. It had been a lifetime since she herself had been that forthright. “Correct. The kiss,” she made herself say. “Not knowing who will find themselves under that doorjamb, at a given moment, accounts for the true excitement around the tradition.”
Both girls went silent as they seemed to be thinking on it.
Over the tops of their heads, Emilia and Heath shared a smile.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, touching a gloved palm to his chest.
Emilia gave her head an imperceptible shake, waving off the gratitude.
“Hmm,” Creda said, more to herself. “Very well. You have earned the rights.”
“The rights?” Emilia looked around at the assembled group.
Iris released an exaggerated sigh. “To select the placement.” She pointed to the Duke of Sutton’s leather library footstool.
“I’ve been stripped of my responsibilities, it would seem,” Heath said dryly.
Emilia bowed her head. “I am honored.” Doing a small circle, she took in the many options. She considered the arched entryways, parallel to one another. “Hmm.” She tapped a fingertip against her lip and then abruptly stopped. “I have it!”
Emilia and the twins looked to Heath, who still stood there with his arms folded at his chest, and he let his arms fall to his sides.
“The footstool, Uncle Heath,” Creda reminded in beleaguered tones.
Immediately springing into action, the marquess fetched the object in question.
“Over there, if you please.” Emilia pointed to the selected entryway, and as Heath carried the requested object over to the indicated spot, a memory trickled in of herself, near in age to Creda and
Iris, sitting and giggling with her friends Aldora and Constance around a worktable at Lady Sutton’s. They were making garland and holly for the holiday party much the way these two little girls before her now did. Except…
Emilia frowned as another buried memory slipped forward.
“Do not look now, but Heath is in the doorway, Emilia,” Constance said from the corner of her mouth.
She glanced up and caught Lord Heath peeking from behind the doorframe, his somber stare on the revelries.
He’d slipped away, and just like that, she and her friends had continued on. She’d never given a thought to why he’d been there. Now, as a grown woman who’d heard him speak of the rigid existence he’d known as a duke’s son, she saw a possibility she’d not considered at the time—he’d wanted to take part in those festivities with the other children. A pang struck her chest.
“Lady Emilia?” one of the girls was saying, bringing Emilia back to the present.
“Hmm?” She blinked. “Oh, yes, uh… perfect,” she said, hurrying over to Heath. He held a hand out.
Emilia stared at his long fingers cased in fine Italian leather gloves. “What are you doing?” she blurted.
His palm faltered. “Offering you a hand up?” His was a question.
“It is the gentlemanly thing to do.” Iris imparted that advice like a seasoned finishing school instructor.
Except… it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. Gentlemen took on such tasks themselves, so as to ensure a lady wasn’t injured. Or that was what her former betrothed had said when they’d decorated her family’s townhouse the winter before they were to marry. As a young woman, she’d secretly chafed at his protectiveness, despising that he’d treated her like a cherished “object” to be guarded and not as a woman capable of hanging her own blasted mistletoe.
“Unless you’d rather I see to it?” Heath ventured.
“No,” she said quickly. “I have it. That is…” She brought her shoulders back. “I’ll see to it.” Resuming her supervisory role, Creda returned to the middle of the foyer. Emilia accepted Heath’s hand. “Do you know, the traditions around mistletoe go back thousands of years?”
A Lady's Guide to a Gentleman's Heart (The Heart of a Scandal Book 2) Page 7
