Jack also looked about as if he had never seen this room before, or as if he was assessing now it might appear to her eyes. Emma ran her hand over the back of a chair and said, “It looks very—comfortable.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “It is that. I should offer you some tea or something, but I fear I have none about. Not even a tin of biscuits.”
“I am quite all right, thank you.” Emma felt very strange and formal all of a sudden, as if she had been transferred from Jack’s sitting room back to the hotel. She smoothed down her skirt and looked around again.
Jack seemed to feel the same tension. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he rocked a bit on his heels. “Well, then,” he said. “I will just go and wash up. I won’t be long.”
Emma nodded and watched as he opened another door and stepped into the room beyond. She just had a quick glimpse of a large, high bed draped in plain dark red curtains before that door closed again.
That glimpse was enough to make her feel oddly warm and tingling all over again. That bed was where Jack must—must…
“He sleeps there, of course, you ninny,” she told herself aloud, albeit quietly, so he would not hear her. She was a green girl indeed if the merest glimpse of a bed was enough to overset her!
Even if it was the place where Jack laid his handsome body down at night. Perhaps even naked. Oh, dear heavens.
Emma laughed at herself and her fancies and sat down on one of the armchairs next to the largest round table. There were lovely, inviting piles of books there, and she reached for one.
Unfortunately, it was in Spanish. And the next one was a dull political treatise, but she leafed through it anyway. She put her feet up on a low footstool and leaned back in the chair, putting the book across her knees.
It must be very nice to live like this, she thought. In nice, cozy rooms, where one could do anything one wanted, with no Madame Ana coming in with lists. Instead of stultifying banquets, there would be evenings by the fire with a book. Or maybe supper and a card game with friends—friends, not “important personages.”
What she would not give to have a dwelling place like this. She never would, of course; it was just another of her impossible daydreams. But right now, she could pretend that it was true, that this was her home.
And if this was her house, she would make a few changes, just to make things cozier. All of this brown would have to go and be replaced with—with blue, perhaps. Yes, blue, with some pictures, some ornaments for the mantel and shelves for the books. A carpet on the floor to warm the smooth wood on chilly evenings…
These whimsical musings were interrupted when the bedchamber door opened again and Jack came out, giving her one more small glance at that bed.
“I hope I did not take too long,” he said, easing his arms into the sleeves of his coat and smoothing down the dark blue cloth. He smoothed it again, and it seemed an uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty. Even in the very short time Emma had known him she had come to sense he was seldom uncertain about anything. When she had called him resolute, she meant it.
“Not at all,” she answered, and sat up straighter in her chair, moving her feet from the stool. “I was enjoying your, er, book.” She looked down at the volume in her hands. She had forgotten it was there.
Jack took it away and examined the lettering on the spine. “I did not know you enjoyed Montesque.”
Emma had never even heard of the man, but she was not about to admit her ignorance to him. She shrugged and said, “You cannot truly know a great deal about me, since we have only known each other for about three hours.”
He laughed and sat down in the chair next to hers. “A very eventful three hours, I would say! I almost fear what might come next.”
Emma laughed, too. It had been a most eventful three hours indeed, more eventful than any three normal days ever were. But she longed to know what might happen next. “I promise I will not lure you into any more ponds or force you to rescue me in any alleyways I have no business being in.”
Jack glanced down at the book in his hands. “Those are not the things I would fear,” he muttered, almost to himself though she heard him.
Emma longed to know what he meant by those words, but she felt she should not press him to be more serious. She did not want to do anything that might make him take her back to the hotel and end their day.
It would end far too soon, anyway.
She looked over at him and noticed how his hair curled damply against his temples. She wanted to smooth it back, to feel if it was satin-soft or wiry or coarse.
Yet she knew what touching that dark hair would lead to wanting, at least for her, a kiss, a touch. All of them forbidden. She had no idea if Jack could possibly want the same things. He was so kind to her, so funny and dear, but always polite. She did not have the experience to tell if a man found her truly pretty. Men flattered her and complimented her, but that was Lady Emma Weston. Not Emma the woman.
It was that uncertainty that kept her hands folded in her lap. That and the knowledge that she had gone to the very edges of boldness just by being here. She dared not go further. Certainly not yet.
“What should we do now?” she said brightly.
He smiled at her and tossed the book back onto the table. “Should you not be going home soon?”
Emma glanced at the plain little clock hanging on the wall. It was afternoon now, but surely her aunt would not be back yet. “Not for a while. What else is there to see?”
“We could try to catch a glimpse of the foreign monarchs,” he suggested. He peered at her closely as he spoke, almost as if to gauge her answer.
“I—no,” she said. Seeing someone she knew sounded like the very last thing she wanted to do. “No, there must be something more fun to do.”
“Oh, of course. You probably see the Russian Tsar and his sister all the time.”
Emma turned to him, startled. Did he know? Had he just been teasing her all along? He looked back at her with guileless blue eyes. “I—what?”
“Since your employer is a lady of the Russian court.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Her tale of being a lady’s maid.
“Perhaps we could go and take a look at Carlton House without seeing any royalty. It is quite a sight,” he suggested.
Emma remembered Natasha’s tales of the glorious illuminations. “What about the illuminations? I have heard they are wondrous! Like—like heaven.”
Jack smiled. “So they are. But you can’t see them until it is dark.”
“Oh. Yes.” Emma sank back in her chair, feeling foolish. Of course illuminations could not be seen in daylight. And she would have to return home long before night fell. “Perhaps some luncheon, then?”
“You are still hungry?” he asked, in a most surprised tone.
“I am, a bit.” And she was. She had thought she would never be hungry again after the pie, but her stomach felt rather hollow. She didn’t know if it was hunger or knowing that the day was drawing to a close. “Shall we go find something to eat, since you don’t have even tea and biscuits here?”
“Certainly.” Jack stood up and offered her his arm. “This is your day, Tonya. Your wish is my command.”
After a flash of uncertainty about who he was speaking to—why, oh why, hadn’t she picked a name closer to her own?—she smiled and slid her hand under his arm. As he led her to the door, she glanced back over her shoulder at the cozy room. For all its brownness, it was lovely, and if she could have one wish, it would be to stay here for the rest of the day.
And maybe even into the evening.
———
Jack held the door of the public house open for Emma as she stepped past him into the dark, crowded room. Her skirts brushed against his boots, and he could smell the sweet lilac scent that always seemed to cling about her, like springtime. He knew he would never be able to smell that light, fresh fragrance again without seeing her in his mind. Seeing her as she laughed, as she did now, giggling behind her han
d at some silly joke he had told her. Seeing her rapt face as she watched ordinary, everyday life flow around her.
Seeing her in his very own sitting room, looking so much at home with her small feet on his stool and his book open on her knees.
He had known as soon as he opened the door to the sitting room—no, before that, as soon as he suggested that they go to his lodgings—that it was a mistake. The sight of her there, in those intimate, familiar surroundings, had awakened feelings that could more easily be kept at bay in public. She was a beautiful woman. No, more than beautiful. The lady at the reception had been beautiful, like a porcelain doll or a painting.
Emma was full of color and life. And there, in his own room, he had wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, kiss her until they fell to the floor in sighs and heat…
He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, acutely uncomfortable. He had been just so ever since he had seen her glance at his bed. What he needed now was ale. Or something stronger. Much stronger.
He held a chair for Emma at a table in a quiet corner.
“This is a fascinating place, Jack!” she said, folding her hands demurely on the scarred tabletop and looking around at the dim, smoky environs. “One time my unc— that is, some obscure relatives, took me to a dining establishment in St. Petersburg, but it was nothing like this.”
“I would imagine not.” He gestured to the barmaid for drinks and a platter of food. The Rose and Thorn was not the sort of place a fine lady would ever frequent. But it was comparatively quiet and close to his lodgings, and the food was cheap and plentiful. He had a feeling, after watching Emma consume her pies, that that would be a consideration.
Also, he was not likely to run into anyone he knew here.
“Is this what they call a public house?” she asked.
Jack laughed. “Where did you hear that phrase?”
“I read.” She watched as the maid put a tall tankard of ale in front of her. Jack would have wagered she would be done with ale after her earlier dizziness, but she just picked it up and sipped at it without comment. “I have learned many, many things from books.”
“Including public houses?” Jack took a long swallow from his own tankard.
“Oh, yes. I never thought I would actually get to see one. It looks just as I imagined.”
She examined the platter of food the maid plunked down on the table, piles of bread, fruit, cheese and cold roasted beef. And Jack, in turn, examined her.
For just one second, he wished this was not a game. He wished they were truly just a young couple out for a treat, that they could walk down the street hand in hand, and not know that this would all end so soon.
He was proud of his life, proud of what he had done and was doing, even if he could not say he was happy. He had almost everything a man could want—family, title, wealth, a job he felt was important. But right now he wanted to be someone else entirely. He wanted her to be someone else.
She popped a bit of bread into her mouth and speared a piece of meat on the end of a fork. “You are not eating, Jack! Are you not hungry?”
He leaned his chin on his hand and grinned at her lazily. “I am just enjoying watching you, Tonya. You are very pretty.”
She frowned doubtfully. “Pretty when I am stuffing myself like a pig?”
“Always pretty.” He reached for a slice of fruit and munched on it.
“You are rather pretty yourself. Or should I say handsome?” she said, but her soft voice made the bold words sound shy. She looked down, toying with her tankard. “Tell me more about yourself, Jack. We have been together for hours; I have even seen your lodgings. But I feel I know nothing about you at all.”
Wariness moved like a cold wind over his whimsical contentment and futile wishes. He sat back in his chair, away from the enchantment of her perfume. “What would you like to know?”
She still moved her tankard about with the tip of her finger. “I don’t know. Anything you want to tell me. You were in the army?”
“Indeed I was. In Spain.”
“I did not see anything of it in your sitting room, aside from that one book in Spanish.”
That was because he had pushed everything he could— uniforms, swords, citations, letters—into a trunk and shoved it beneath the bed long ago. Where he did not have to see it every day, even though he always lived with it in his mind. “It was a very—different time.” And it was not yet over. Not by a long shot.
Emma nodded. “You do not want to be reminded. I understand. There are many things I would rather not be reminded of, too. But I know people who hang swords and battle colors on their walls and talk all the time of the glories of battle.”
Jack snorted. “Glories!”
“Exactly so.” Emma was silent for a long moment, staring down at her hand as if she, too, was remembering scenes best forgotten. Then she looked up at him with one of her bright smiles. “I have made us so solemn again, when this is meant to be a day of joy! All that is behind us now. Gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that! And I need more ale.”
As Jack turned to summon the maid, he saw what he had come to this out-of-the-way place to avoid— someone he knew. Bertie Stonewich of all people stood in the doorway, sunlight behind him, a petite blond woman in a vivid red gown on his arm. Jack slumped down in his chair, but it was too little too late.
Bertie had seen him.
“Jack!” he called happily, the joviality in his voice a clear signal that he, too, had been “celebrating.” “Jack, old man, imagine running into you here.” He made his way over to their table, the woman trailing beside him, her steps unsteady.
Jack had no choice. He stood up, giving Bertie what he hoped was a warning glance. “We were just having a quick meal. Bertie, this is Tonya, a visitor to our country. She is lady’s maid to a member of the Russian court.”
“Tonya. What a lucky devil my friend here is, to have found such a lovely companion,” Bertie said, with a roguish grin. Emma held out her hand to him in an automatic imperious gesture, and Bertie bowed over it. “And this is my friend Lottie. Meet my other friends, m’dear.”
Apparently Lottie, and presumably Bertie, had been imbibing freely in celebration of the day. Jack only wished he had been, too. It would make this whole absurd situation more bearable. Maybe even laughable.
The odd thing was, he was not so much afraid that Bertie might expose his and Emma’s mutual masquerade as he was angry that Bertie interrupted his precious time alone with Emma.
“Won’t you join us?” Emma asked. She moved her chair over to make room for them. “There is still some bread and cheese left.”
“I am feeling a bit peckish,” Lottie said, sliding into a vacant chair and reaching for a piece of bread. She gave Bertie a flirtatious smile. “I wouldn’t mind a spot of ale, either, dearling.”
“Say no more. I will go order some directly. It would be quicker to fetch it from the bar than wait for the serving maid,” said Bertie. “Perhaps Jack will join me.” He raised a brow inquiringly at Jack.
Jack wondered what his game was. He was tempted to just sit down by Emma again, try to resume their day and ignore Bertie, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to talk to Bertie. “Certainly. Tonya, is there anything I could get for you?”
She gave him a small, distracted smile. She was obviously busy examining Lottie’s bright gown and pink, rose-trimmed bonnet. “Some tea, perhaps, if there is any.”
“I’m sure there must be some tea to be had.” Jack followed Bertie to the long, grimy bar and joined the crowds clustered there waiting for their ale. It was noisy and jostling—the perfect spot for secrets.
“What game are you playing, Jack?” Bertie muttered, all traces of tipsy buffoonery dropped away. He gave a silly little wave to Lottie, but his gaze was steel blue and serious when he looked back at Jack.
“Game?” Jack said. He and Bertie had been friends since their earliest days in Spain. They had worked together in so many things; Jack had always fel
t Bertie was the one person he could tell anything to. Now he was at a loss for words.
How could he explain what was happening with Emma when he wasn’t certain himself? He told himself that he was doing his duty, protecting the lady. Yet if that was true, he would have taken her back to the Pulteney Hotel posthaste, not squired her around the city and into common public houses.
“Do not think I don’t know who that lady is,” Bertie answered. “That plain dress does not disguise her a bit. What in Jove’s name are you doing with someone like Lady Emma Weston in here!”
Jack glanced about to see if anyone heard Bertie’s softly spoken words. No one paid them any heed at all; they were all far too busy clamoring for their drinks and food. “It is a long story.”
Bertie crossed his arms over his chest. “I have time. Lady Emma and Lottie are obviously enjoying their own chat.”
Jack looked over at Emma. She was indeed deep in conversation with Bertie’s “friend,” her head tilted in rapt fascination at whatever Lottie was saying. “I found her this morning in a deserted alleyway being accosted by a cutpurse. She was dressed in this fashion and has not even given me her true name. She made up this absurd story about being a maid. I thought it best that I keep an eye on her, until she is ready to tell the truth or go back to the hotel.”
Bertie did look surprised at that. “A runaway, eh? Is she intending to leave her family permanently, do you suppose?”
Jack had not even thought of that. “I have the distinct impression that it is a temporary thing. A mere lark.”
Their turn came at the bar, and Bertie moved away to procure his ale. “Lottie and I are going to view the illuminations this evening. You and—Tonya, is it?—are welcome to join us. Then, if she proves reluctant to go back to the Pulteney, I will be on hand to assist you. It is of course necessary that she be returned to the bosom of her family as soon as possible, lark or no.”
Returned to the bosom of her family. Jack had known all along that that would come to pass. But he could not have known how much that thought would pain him.
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