Emma frowned in utter confusion. “Properly? What do you mean?”
“I mean, that I want you to know that I respect you. That I am willing to wait a few days, a few weeks, until we know you are comfortable. I will do whatever you wish.”
She wished he would talk to her like Jack again, not like some tiresome storybook knight to his fair damsel. Those words, that voice, did not seem to belong to her Jack at all. He was treating her like some delicate doll, and she did not like it.
What did he mean, anyway? That he did not want to do the deed with her? That he wanted to wait? What man would do that?
Oh. Her confusion slipped slowly sideways into suspicion. A man who did not truly desire his wife would do that, that was who.
When she was Tonya, she had thought he might desire her. The way he gazed at her, the way he kissed her, had seemed to express the same feelings she held in her heart. But, very often, she had seen the husbands of her married acquaintances place their wives on some distant pedestals. Wives were meant to be admired, perhaps, but not desired. That was for other women, bolder women.
Lord St. A., the heartbreaker.
Emma remembered the words in that scandal sheet with a sharp pang. She would never have thought such a thing of Jack! She wanted to scream at him, to wail, “Why don’t you think I’m prettyl” She even had the insane notion of tearing open her nightdress to see what he would do then.
But she did not, because that would be undignified, and right now, above all, Emma wanted to keep her dignity. She would not show Jack her confused desire.
Not until she had time to think. To figure out what she should do.
She gently removed her hands from Jack’s and said quietly, “Very well. If that is what you wish, we shall wait.”
He gave her a smile, half-tentative, half-relieved. “Very well.” He kissed her gently, briefly, on the lips, and stood up to go. “I will send Natasha to you, and we will be off as soon as you are ready.”
Emma nodded and turned to stare at the window until she heard the door close behind him. She was still looking at, though not really seeing, the expanse of blue sky, when the door reopened to admit Natasha, who carried a basin of fresh warm water for Emma to wash in. Emma slowly turned back to the room to watch her maid put down the basin and pick up Emma’s pink satin dressing gown.
“Well, my lady?” Natasha said, with a hopeful, teasing note in her voice. “How was your evening?”
Much to Emma’s everlasting shame, she burst into tears at Natasha’s question and flung herself back down into the pillows.
“Oh, my lady!” Natasha cried in obvious horror. “It was that bad?”
———
You are a damned fool, Jack thought over and over, as he paced the inn’s courtyard next to their waiting carriage. A noble, ridiculous fool.
What had he been thinking, when he told Emma they could wait to consummate their marriage? He had seen the confusion on her face, before she hid it behind her ice-princess mask. He felt the stirrings, the protests of his own body. It had wanted to make love to her right there in the morning light, but he had said no. He was a complete fool, a simpleton.
But, really, he knew what he had been thinking. He had been so caught up in the romance of the night before, in the thrill of knowing that he could feel again, that he could leave the war behind him and enjoy the beauties of this world. Chief among them, of course, being Emma.
He had wanted to do all he could not to frighten her away, to make their marriage work. This had seemed to be the best way to do that, to tell her that there was no hurry, that they had time to wait. Truth to tell, it had given him the satisfying feeling of being a noble, self-sacrificing gentleman, a knight of old.
For about a minute and a half. Then he had seen Emma’s puzzlement, her coolness, and had the unmistakable sensation of having made a mistake. Only he was not exactly sure what the mistake had been or how to fix it.
Perhaps he should go back into the inn and make love to his wife right now, this very minute.
He half-turned toward the door, but Emma was already coming out. She wore a pristine, ladylike traveling costume of rose-colored wool and a tall-crowned bonnet of off-white, with a frill of rose silk framing her face like a flower. She handed her maid a neatly tied bandbox and smiled and nodded at something Natasha said. The earlier coolness had vanished, and she seemed like his sunny, happy Emma again.
Surely he had been right in his decision after all. When he and Emma made love, it would be wonderful—all the more wonderful for the heightened anticipation waiting would bring. If it did not kill him first.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Emma had not seen Weston Manor since she was six years old, and her memories were the hazy, vague ones of childhood. She remembered that there was a garden, with twisting pathways of roses where she would walk with her mother or her nurse. There was a wide, winding staircase, perfect for hiding and peeping down at grown-up parties below. The rooms were large and sunny with tall windows. Her mother would sit in the light that fell from those windows, her head bent over embroidery or a book, the sun gleaming on her black hair.
Emma had few memories of her father. She remembered that he was tall, that the bristles of his whiskers tickled her when he picked her up and kissed her at the end of the day. He smelled of some citrus soap, and he laughed a great deal.
She remembered more of her mother. That light on her hair, the scent of her perfume, the gentle way she smiled at her daughter. She would hum a lilting tune as she cut flowers from the garden. She loved parties and people.
That was all, really. Emma wondered if she would remember more of them once she was back in their house. If she would find anything there at all. She was so full of excitement and anticipation at seeing it again that she almost forgot her strange morning with Jack. Almost.
She peered out of the carriage window, twisting her head around to try to glimpse the house, even though she knew it was too early to be able to see it. She wanted to find something familiar in the passing scenery, but she did not. It appeared like any piece of summertime countryside, green, bounded by hedgerows, trees shading the road.
“We will be there soon,” Jack said, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
Emma looked at him and smiled. Here in this carriage, with both of them fully dressed, he was her friend again. Her partner in this great adventure, this new life. “How soon?”
He laughed. “Soon enough.”
They passed through a small village, shops, cottages, a lovely stone church beside a matching vicarage, where a man in a black coat, obviously the vicar, tended a small garden. As they drove past, he straightened and peered at the carriage, waving in a most friendly manner. Other people, sweeping the doorsteps of shops, hurrying along on errands, waved.
Almost as if they knew her. Remembered her. As if she could almost belong here.
Impulsively, she turned to Jack and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Jack laughed, and kissed her back. “For what?”
“For bringing me here, of course. And for—for just being you.”
———
The house was not exactly as Emma recalled from the depths of her memory. It was smaller, the gardens and floral borders not as lush. But the mellow pale pink of the bricks, the tall windows, were the same. Several of the windows were open to the warm day, with draperies fluttering there. Neatly trimmed topiaries, much like the one Emma had fallen over on Lady Hertford’s terrace, lined the front steps.
It was familiar, yet new and strange at the same time. It had been her home such a long time ago; it would be the first home she would share with her new husband.
She wondered what its rooms and corridors would hold for them, what she would find there.
A sudden nervousness seized her, clutching at her stomach. She reached up to make sure her bonnet was straight, her hair still dressed in neat curls at her temples.
“You look beautiful,” Jack said.<
br />
Then why don’t you desire me? she thought, the words popping unwillingly into her mind. But she only had time to give him a glance before the carriage stopped at the foot of the steps. She couldn’t think of that now or of anything else. She was home.
As they stepped down onto the driveway, the front door opened and a tall woman in a neat gray dress and white cap came out. She was followed by some housemaids, footmen and a man in a black butler’s coat.
“Lord and Lady St. Albans?” the woman said. “I am Mrs. Hemmings, housekeeper here at Weston Manor. Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” Emma answered. Still in a dreamlike state, she acknowledged the introductions to the butler and the other servants and presented Natasha and Madame Ana. She followed Mrs. Hemmings on a quick tour through the main rooms of the house, the small beeswax-and polish-scented library, the sunny morning room, the grand dining room. She nodded, made all the correct responses, asked all the correct questions, placed her hand correctly on Jack’s arm. But she was glad her aunt had trained her so well in all the niceties of running a household; otherwise she was not sure she could do all these things. All she really wanted to do was sit down on a marble step of that remembered staircase and stare and stare.
“And this is the drawing room.” Mrs. Hemmings opened tall double doors and led them into a long, elegant room. The walls were painted a pale blue, edged in mouldings of purest white. Inviting groupings of chairs and settees, gilded and upholstered in blue striped satin, were clustered around small tables covered with dainty figurines and tiny jeweled boxes.
Hanging over the marble fireplace was a portrait of a beautiful woman in a white muslin gown, sashed in blue silk. Her black hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders and down her back. She was seated under a towering oak tree, and in the background was a view of Weston Manor. And the woman smiled down at the black-haired toddler in her lap.
Emma. That was Emma, her baby self. She moved across the room toward it, drawn to the bright scene.
Behind her, Mrs. Hemmings said, “I will send tea in to you, Lady St. Albans, and make sure your maid is sent to your rooms. Is there anything else you require?”
Emma looked back at her. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hemmings.”
The housekeeper gave her a smile. “I was a parlormaid here when your parents were in residence, my lady. May I say welcome back?”
Emma was truly touched. “Thank you, Mrs. Hemmings.”
When she had left, closing the drawing room door behind her, Emma returned to the portrait.
Jack came to join her, also staring up at the painting. “Is that your mother?”
“Yes. And me, though of course I have no remembrance of that scene!”
“She is beautiful. You look so much like her.”
Overcome by all the emotions of the house, of her marriage, of everything, Emma threw her arms around Jack and held him close, burying her face in the warm curve of his shoulder.
His own arms closed around her, encompassing them in their own small world. “What is it, Emma? Is something amiss? Do you not like the house after all?”
“I adore the house.”
“Then, what is it?”
Emma tilted her head back to look at him. “I am just so very glad we are here. I think we will be happy.”
He smiled, the bewilderment vanishing in relief and his familiar charm. “I think so, too. I most definitely think so, too.”
———
Sir Jeremy Ashbey strode down the great hall of his family home. There were no servants about, and the ancient gray stones held so deep a chill that not even the summer’s day could warm them. His travel boots struck the wooden floor with a hollow thud at every step.
He did not know why he had left London to come back here, leaving his promising career. Especially since Lady Emma would be just on the neighboring estate, reminding him at every moment of what he had lost. No, what had been taken from him. Because of that—that blackguard, she no longer belonged to him Yet, she was always in his mind, her pretty face, the sound of her voice, tormenting him at every turn.
No, he had no desire to be here. But his sister’s letter had sounded so urgent, frantic. She had threatened to run away, to send their mother to Bedlam, if she received no help.
That Jeremy would not stand for. If the nature of his mother’s illness, now just a rumor, became known for certain, if she was taken to a public place like Bedlam, their family would be a laughingstock. If needs be, he would lock both his mother and his sister up here forever before he would tolerate being laughed at.
He stopped at the heavy door to his mother’s chamber and knocked shortly. It was several silent moments before there was the scrape of a key in the lock, and his sister swung the door open.
Maria Ashbey was three years younger than her brother, but she looked ten years older. Her face was pale and tinged gray with tiredness, her blond hair scraped back beneath a plain white cap. She was thin, almost emaciated, beneath her plain dark blue dress, and her lips were locked in a pinch.
Jeremy expelled an impatient breath. Maria was the sister of a baronet, yet she always dressed like the veriest kitchen maid. She could at least try to make an effort to appear befitting her status.
He pushed past her into the room, and she closed and locked the door behind him. “So you are here at last, brother.” she said, in her quiet, colorless voice, a voice that was utterly different from her hysterical letter.
“I came when I received your letter, Maria,” he answered shortly. “It came at a very inconvenient time, with the allied monarchs in Town. It does no good for my career for me to be here. And you know that I must have a career of some sort, for the money.”
Maria shrugged. “It is inconvenient here, as well. Mother’s nurse has left, and I cannot manage on my own any longer. You must do something.”
Jeremy could have shouted at the frustration, the maddening selfishness of it all. “What can I possibly…”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a shout from the corner cut him off. A figure launched itself out of the shadows at him, nearly knocking him from his feet. He fell back against the door, clutching at his mother.
She caught his coat with her clawlike hands and stared up at him through the veil of her gray-blond hair. Ursula, Lady Ashbey, had once been the loveliest woman in the neighborhood next to Elizabeth Weston. Now she was a thin, twisted old woman with a lined face, rheumy eyes and tangled hair.
“Edward!” she screamed, calling Jeremy by his dead father’s name. “You bastard, I knew you would come back from hell to get me!”
“Mother!” Jeremy cried, trying to peel her off him. She just clung harder, the strength of her thin hands inhuman.
“It is time for her medicine,” Maria said, still in that toneless voice. She poured out a glass of milky, sticky liquid, diluted with some wine. “You must hold her still for me to administer it to her.”
As Jeremy wrestled his screaming mother’s hands behind her back, he thought of the elegant life he had planned with Lady Emma and how he had lost it all. This, this, was all that was left for him.
Or perhaps—perhaps there was something he could do to gain back all that was lost.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Look at all these, Jack! We have been in the neighborhood only two days, and yet we are invited everywhere.” Emma sifted through the stack of cards and letters placed beside her plate at the breakfast table. There was an invitation to tea at the vicarage, supper at someplace called Watley Hall from an old friend of her mother’s, Lady Watley, even a dance at the assembly rooms in the village.
Jack smiled at her over his coffee cup. “Such a social whirl! We might as well have stayed in London,” he said teasingly.
Emma laughed. “Well, perhaps it is not quite that much of a whirl! But it still seems a great deal. I thought the country was a quiet place.”
Jack shrugged. He already seemed the casual country squire in his tweed coat and plain waistcoa
t, his hair a wind-tossed mass of waves. He had spent all yesterday and the day before, and even this morning before breakfast, out riding. Galloping down rustic lanes and through wooded groves, no doubt, Emma thought. As well as who knew what else.
Emma wished she knew the secret of his ease. She also wished she knew the secret that would open the door connecting their two bedchambers, but it quite eluded her. Was she meant to say something when she felt the time was right? Would he say something to her?
Or perhaps she should just knock on the door. Would that be terribly brazen?
Sometimes it was just inconvenient to be so—so inexperienced. She half-wished she had some sophisticated friend to ask. She did not, of course. There was only Natasha, who knew no more than she did, and Madame Ana. Though Madame Ana was a widow, there was just no way Emma could ask her such a thing, she was so perfect and proper. Even if Emma wanted to, she probably could not catch Madame Ana, the way she dashed about the house after Mrs. Hemmings, asking how things were run in an “English household.” She seemed far more concerned with the domestic arrangements than Emma, who also spent a great deal of time studying the house.
Emma sighed. At least Madame Ana would be happy with the invitations. It would give her something else to organize.
And, truly, aside from the bedroom door issue, married life was fine. Better than fine. She loved living in her parents’ home, walking the garden paths her mother had trod, playing her mother’s pianoforte (though perhaps not as well as her mother had!), and moving slowly into the life of the house, making it her own.
In the evenings, she and Jack would dine at one end of the grand table in the dining room and talk over then-days, their plans. Afterwards they would play cards or read together in the drawing room. Last night, they had taken a stroll through the moonlit garden, hand in hand, talking quietly.
It was all very well. It was everything she had imagined married life could be. Almost.
Jack put his coffee cup down, the soft clatter of the china pulling Emma from her musings. “Country life can be just as quiet as you like,” he told her. “We do not have to accept those invitations, you know, Emma. We can just burrow in here like two little mice and no one will bother us.”
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