In fact, the conversation at dinner had been so animated and lively, half her hair seemed to have slipped its pins as she laughed. As she twisted curls back into place, she caught a glimpse of her expression in the mirror. Her colour was high, her eyes bright, and her lips seemed stuck in a slight smile. Even with her hair verging on untidy, she looked rather nice, much to her relief.
It was only for female pride that she wanted to look nice, of course. She was not putting stock in what her mother said, nor taking her mother’s advice to pursue the Captain. She was just enjoying his company, and he was even more interesting without a wall between them. As he related some story, with frequent asides from Lieutenant Hakeham, about fishing in the Caribbean, Emma found herself drifting away as she always did when he spoke, and his rich tenor voice carried her imagination away to some faraway place. Only when she caught Lady Stanley watching her curiously did she recall where she was.
Her hair repaired, her heart light, she walked back to the dining room. As she reached the door, Godfrey slipped out, a laden tray in his hands. When he saw her, he bowed crisply, despite his tray, and left the door unlatched. “Thank you,” Emma murmured, moving aside to let him pass. She reached out to let herself back into the dining room.
“It’s her connection to Mrs Hayton that concerns me.” Mrs Quentin’s voice, though not raised or angry, carried through the partly closed door. Emma froze. “Phineas, her mother is quite beyond the pale. Her ambition is no secret to anyone – indeed, she does not try to hide it. I warrant she took one look at you and rated you a fine catch in terms of wealth, station and advantage.” Emma closed her eyes as each word struck home. “You mustn’t let yourself be taken in.”
The Captain’s reply was too low to hear, but Emma didn’t even try. It was bad enough that her mother’s scheming was widely known, and now presented to the Captain. He would have heard of it sooner or later, most likely. The Bowens had come to despise Mother because of her ceaseless manoeuvring for every little scrap of status. Her stepson William had refused to allow Mother at Bowen Lodge after his father died, not even for the funeral. He’d said he couldn’t bear to watch her try to catch a third husband over the cold meats, and Emma couldn’t argue against it. Her mother was shameless.
Quietly she turned and walked away. She should just leave. Emma didn’t want to know what the Captain himself might think of her now; her mother’s behaviour the other day could only have confirmed Mrs Quentin’s words. Perhaps if she stayed out of her garden for the next few weeks, the Captain would believe she hadn’t been scheming to marry him. Except . . . Oh, how she would miss him.
But the door opened before she had gone more than a few steps. “Lady Bowen,” said the Captain behind her. “Wait. Please, wait!”
“I must go,” she said in a rush, barely glancing back. “A sudden headache . . . I don’t wish to spoil everyone’s evening . . .”
“Wait,” he said again, firmly. He was already beside her, and took her arm. “I must have a word before you go.”
“Your guests,” she tried to protest.
“They can wait.” He pushed open the door to a small room. When he closed the door behind them, there was only cool, bright moonlight to see by, but she had no trouble making out his frown.
“You heard what my mother said.” He wasn’t asking.
Emma avoided his gaze. “You mustn’t think I am offended. She is, in general, correct; you saw for yourself how my mother can twist things to suit her.”
The Captain turned away and put his hands through his hair. “Damn.”
“But I wouldn’t want you to think I came tonight because my mother wished it,” Emma forged on.
He wheeled around. “Why did you come?”
“Be-because . . . I . . .” she stammered. “Because I wanted to.”
Relief swept over his face, and his shoulders sagged. “Why?” he asked quietly.
Her lips parted. “Because of our friendship,” she whispered. “Oh, I really must go.”
“No!” He lunged for the door at the same moment she did. His hand closed over hers on the doorknob. Emma froze. He was so close, his hand so large and strong over hers. She could smell his soap, and the wine on his breath. “One more question,” he murmured, his cheek right next to hers. “Just for friendship?”
Emma breathed deeply. She couldn’t think, not when he was so close. He must feel how he affected her, not at all like a friend. She didn’t say anything.
With careful hands he turned her to face him. “I should go,” she whispered again, without making any effort to leave. He just looked down at her with those blue, blue eyes. As he raised his hand, his knuckles brushed the outside of her breast. Emma sucked in her breath; her whole body flinched. The Captain paused, his eyes searching hers, and then he slowly brushed his knuckles deliberately over the same spot. This time Emma gasped. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her knees felt weak. Still watching her, Captain Quentin lowered his head and kissed her.
It was a kiss like no other. His mouth was hot and sweet, flavoured with burgundy and passion. It took Emma off guard, and for a moment she leaned into him, opening to him and letting him deepen the kiss. For a moment everything else fell away, and she was carried away again by the spell he seemed to weave over her so effortlessly. This was no fantasy or flight of fancy; this was his arm around her, his mouth on hers, and her body straining into his.
But, as always, the spell broke. He lifted his head and Emma crashed back to earth. She was kissing him while his family sat a few rooms away, thinking she was laying a trap for him with her mother’s help. She had only ever spoken politely and properly with the Captain, and had no idea what his real intentions towards her were. And she hadn’t kissed a man since Sir Arthur died four years ago. For all she knew, those years had made her awkward and susceptible, too easily swayed by the most magnificent kiss she’d ever experienced.
She backed up a step, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He said nothing, just looked at her with a slightly dazed expression. “Please make my excuses.”
“Don’t go,” he said, as she pulled open the door. Emma just shook her head and fled.
Phin let her go. He wasn’t sure he could walk. His body had reacted with joyous alacrity when she opened her lips under his, and now he was so aroused, it hurt. He also wasn’t sure what to do. Perhaps his thoughts would clear when he could think of something other than the feel of her in his arms. That moment seemed a long time off.
He’d thought things were going rather well at dinner. Lady Bowen – Emma – appeared to enjoy herself, joining in the conversation and laughing when Sarah teased him about something. Phin had to work at keeping his eyes away from her. She was beauty itself in a dark-green gown that shimmered in the light, her dark hair piled in loose curls that made his fingers itch to unpin them. And when she excused herself from the table, Sarah had immediately turned to him.
“Oh, Phin, she likes you,” his sister hissed in delight. “Are you planning to propose?”
“Sarah,” murmured Gregory.
Sarah waved him off. “Are you, Phin? She seems very sweet and not at all proud.”
Phin had thought exactly the same thing, and been opening his mouth to say “yes” when his mother raised her hand in protest, and condemned Mrs Hayton. “You don’t want to get taken in,” she added gently.
But Phin had seen a shadow at the door. “Bite your tongue, Mama,” he had growled, and then run after Emma.
He hadn’t planned to kiss her. He had planned to be proper and polite all night. But the moment intervened, and left him more certain than ever that he wanted Emma as his wife.
“Sir?” Godfrey tapped at the door. Phin started out of his thoughts. “Do you need anything?”
Just her, he thought bleakly. “No.”
“Shall I bring the port to the table?”
Phin adjusted his trousers and sighed. “Yes.” Bring the damn port so he could bundle hi
s guests out the door, and he could puzzle out what to do next about the luscious Emma Bowen.
Seven
Emma rushed out of the Captain’s house and ran up her own front steps. She banged on her door until Jane answered, and then rushed up the stairs to her room. She ignored her maid running up the stairs behind her, squawking in concern. Emma threw open her bedroom door and slammed it behind her, turning the key in the lock with shaking hands.
“Madam! Lady Bowen!” Jane thumped on the door, her voice sharp with fear. “Are ye ill? Should I send for a doctor?”
“No!” She pressed her hands to her face; the blush was still hot on her skin. “I’m fine, Jane. Never mind. You can go on to bed.”
Jane knocked again. “You’ll need help with your gown.”
“Not now I don’t! Leave me be,” Emma said sharply. There was a surprised hush, then Jane left, her footsteps almost drowning out the sound of her muttered indignation.
Emma paused and slowly raised her hand. She laid her palm against the wall, her heavenly blue wall. The plaster was cool and solid beneath her hand. His house would be the opposite of hers, the plans mirror images. If he had taken the best bedroom for his own, as she had done, it would lie directly on the other side of this wall. She took a deep, shaky breath, thinking of him undressing just feet away, separated only by a foot of plaster and brick.
And he wanted her.
She thought of his voice, smooth and strong, sliding over her like a caress. She thought of his hand, so large and strong, taking hers. She thought of his lips, brushing sensuously over hers.
He wanted her.
She touched the neckline of her gown; her fingers drifted along the puckered fabric. Gently she touched the swell of her breast and shivered. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her breast. Sir Arthur had thought it unseemly, even in the marriage bed. She didn’t think the Captain would hesitate to touch every inch of her, in bed. The heat in his gaze, when his hand had accidentally brushed her breast, was impossible to forget – and then he had deliberately done it again, watching her as he did so. Emma knew her body had betrayed her, even if her face had not, and that he was aware of her reaction. He wouldn’t have kissed her if he hadn’t been sure. She stroked her breast again, imagining it was his hand that touched her, and a sharp tingle raced through her.
She wanted him.
The blue walls around her might have been the reflection of his eyes, surrounding her, watching her. Alone in her room, she admitted to herself that she had been half in love with the Captain for some time now – the Captain, with his easy laugh and deep voice and the way he could describe a hurricane and make it sound as exciting and as sensual as it was dangerous and frightening. She had known anxiety and fear, but never with any exhilaration, and never with such high stakes as the Captain had experienced, with his very life caught between the storm’s tempest and his own skill as a mariner. Emma didn’t want to experience a hurricane on a ship in the middle of an ocean, but maybe, just once, she should risk a tempest of some sort. She had been quiet and sensible her whole life, trying so hard not to be like her brash, calculating mother. She had married a quiet, sensible man, and they had lived a quiet, sensible life together. There had been no excitement, only a calm contentment, with Sir Arthur. Emma didn’t once think it would be that way with Captain Quentin – with Phineas.
She went to her window, overlooking the garden where they had talked so frequently, and sat for a long time, thinking. When the clock chimed midnight, she pushed open the casement. It squeaked as it swung open, and she braced her hands on the frame, then leaned out to take a deep breath. She could smell the roses from her garden, and the jasmine from his. It was a sweet, wild scent, hinting of exotic lands and adventures. The jasmine had been there when he bought the house, but Emma thought it suited him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling something a bit wild and sweet stir within her.
Then she gave a huff of laughter. After the way she had run out on him, Captain Quentin probably thought her mad, or else repulsed by his declaration. “Blast,” Emma said, shaking her head. “What a fool I am.”
“Lady Bowen?”
Emma started violently, banging her elbow on the window frame as she leaped backwards. Her heart nearly stopped. “Captain!” she exclaimed. “I . . . Forgive my language . . . I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t realize you were there . . .” Her voice petered out, which perhaps should have happened sooner. Silently, Emma grimaced and bounced her fist off her forehead. Now he would think her mad and a slattern.
“I have heard far worse language, and I beg your forgiveness,” came his sombre reply. “I should have spoken as soon as I heard your window open.” He paused. “I confess, I was hoping to talk to you.”
Something about the way his voice dropped as he made that confession sent a shudder through her. He had been hoping to talk to her. Perhaps this way was best, when she couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her. Emma wet her lips. “I am sorry for the way I left this evening.”
“I am sorry you were driven to it,” he answered instantly. “Please accept my deepest, humblest apology for what happened—”
“No,” she said softly. “I liked it.” There was a long moment of silence. The night breeze stirred the jasmine, and Emma filled her lungs with sweet wildness. “I was . . . startled.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I should not have . . .”
“Should I have been startled?” she asked when he stopped. “I have looked forward to our every conversation, and wished you were in your garden even more often. I have dreamed of the things you describe to me, and I can hear your voice in those dreams. I have kept those things to myself, not wishing to ruin our friendship, never dreaming you meant more. Have I been blind?”
“No. You have been everything a lady should be.”
“But now I wish to discover what a woman should be,” she whispered.
For a moment all was silent. “I am going into my garden,” he said. “And unlocking the gate in the wall.”
Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She had forgotten about that gate; it was small and narrow, and she had planted roses in front of it last year, never thinking she would use it. The thorns would probably rip her dress to shreds . . . but changing would mean waiting for Jane to come help her. Besides . . . She smoothed her trembling hands over her skirt. It was only a dress, sensible and modest. Without stopping to think about anything else, she crossed the room, unlocked her door and hurried down the stairs.
Eight
Straining his ears, Phin heard the faint sound of her door opening. Good God, she was going to meet him. Without pausing even to put his coat back on, he rushed out of his room and bounded down the stairs. Godfrey met him in the hall, looking alert.
“Something wrong, Captain?”
“No, nothing,” said Phin as he pushed past him. “I’m going to get some air.”
“At midnight, sir?” said Godfrey in surprise.
“Yes. You can go to bed.” Phin paused, thinking. “In fact, go now. Take a glass of port. Take the bottle. And whatever you do, don’t set foot in the garden.” Leaving his astonished man, he strode through the house to the rear door, unlatched it and stepped out into the night.
He knew Emma spent hours in her garden, weeding and pruning and even talking to her plants. Phin would sit quietly and listen, picturing her at work, her arms stretched overhead . . . or on her knees . . . or bending over to pick the flowers . . . Phin had peered over the wall a few times, and seen the bower she cultivated. His garden was nothing compared to hers. There had been a linden tree and some climbing vine growing there when he moved in and, since Phin had no talent with plants, that was all that grew there now. As he pulled aside the overgrown vines to get to the tiny connecting door, he realized the vine was flowering, with masses of small white flowers that gave off a faint sweet scent. When he dragged the door open, a shower of flowers rained down on him. He was still brushing them from his shoulders and hair when
she appeared in the doorway.
For a moment she just stood there, watching him. Phin could only stare back. She still wore her evening dress, the dark-green fabric black in the night. Moonlight gilded her shoulders and hair with a silvery light. “Emma,” he whispered.
She stepped forwards, into the shadows, through the door. “Good evening.”
Great God. She was here, in the moonlit garden, with him, just as he had fantasized about. Now what should he do? Probably not seize her and carry her inside to his bed, which was where his fantasies usually led. “Thank you,” he said lamely. “For coming out.”
Her smile began in her eyes, then her lips curved and a faint dimple appeared in her cheek. “Is that all you wished to tell me?”
“To tell you?” he repeated. “No, there is a great deal more I want to tell you . . . But first . . .” He stepped closer. Her head fell back as she looked up at him, and a lock of her hair slipped free and fell across her shoulder. Phin reached out and wound it around his finger. Her eyes half closed and her lips parted on a soundless sigh of want. He shuddered, sliding his hand around the back of her neck, digging his fingers into her glorious curls, and lowering his head to hers.
The kiss began gently. His lips brushed hers, and Emma shivered. He must have thought she was cold, for his arms went around her, enveloping her in the warm, male scent of him. Through the thin linen of his shirtsleeves she could feel his muscles flex and bunch as he pulled her closer, and Emma moaned softly. She slid her hands up the front of his waistcoat, anchoring herself to him as his mouth slanted over hers, more demanding, coaxing, seductive. This was a tempest she could lose herself in, most willingly . . .
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