Her eyes flew open, the last hazy chains of slumber vanished, and she remembered. She remembered everything. She was not in her own room. She was in her husband’s, and he was asleep beside her.
He was also naked, as naked as she was herself. She giggled and pushed herself back against the pillows to peer down at him. He lay on his back, one arm flung towards her, one draped down by the side of the bed. His hair fell in tousled waves over his brow, and his face in sleep was smooth as a young boy’s.
Emma thought he was achingly beautiful. She reached out to smooth back that hair. He stirred but did not waken.
She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. As she inhaled his distinctive scent, she recalled everything about the night before. Every beautiful second.
It had been even more splendid than she could have imagined. More splendid than anyone could have said! And she wanted to do it all again. Yes, she would wake him, and then…
But as she straightened up against the bank of pillows, her muscles screamed in aching protest. Perhaps she could not do it again just yet. Besides, Jack looked so very peaceful. She did not want to wake him.
There was another clatter in the corridor outside, reminding Emma sharply that there was a world outside this enchanted chamber. A household, part of which would soon be coming in here to clean the grates. Goodness, whatever would they think, if they found her here like this? Suddenly, she sat up and climbed down from the bed.
It seemed ridiculously priggish to worry about what the servants would think, she thought with a giggle. After all, she and Jack were married!
But she knew that married couples generally slept in their own chambers, with only discreet visits in between. She knew little of married life, so perhaps it would be best if she followed at least the appearance of that convention. For now, anyway, while things were so very new and delicate between them.
Though she truly loathed leaving her husband, she found her nightdress in a rumpled ball by the bed and pulled it over her head. As she pushed back her tangle of hair to tie the ribbon at the neck, Jack sighed and rolled over.
On a whim, Emma decided to leave him a small memento of their night. She pulled the blue satin ribbon from its loops and placed it in the indentation of her abandoned pillow.
“Good morning, Jack darling,” she whispered, and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then, before she could change her mind, she slipped back through the connecting door to her own chamber.
———
“Emma!” Jack muttered, and his own voice pulled him out of sleep. He blinked against the remnants of sleep, opening his eyes to see that pale morning light already streamed from the windows.
He rubbed at his face. He had been having the oddest, sweetest dream…
He rolled over—and saw the sky-blue ribbon on the pillow next to his. A smile tugged at his lips. It had not been a dream after all. It had been reality, but more wonderful than reality had ever been before.
Jack’s smile grew, and he reached for the ribbon, pressing the thin satin to his lips. It still held a trace of her lilac perfume. The sweet scent made him remember everything—her kisses, the way she felt in his arms, so soft and yielding, how very desperate he had been for her. Perhaps it had been the long wait or the talk of war and the past that made every moment of life precious, but he had needed her in a way he had never needed anything or anyone before. He had been wild to see her, to embrace every inch of her, to inhale her springtime lilac scent and hold her inside him forever.
And miracle of miracles, she had wanted him, too. Her arms had encircled him, holding him fast. Her words, tumbled and incoherent, urged him closer. It had been wild and crazed and sweet and—perfect. A night he never wanted to end.
But it had to, of course, as everything did. He had not heard her leave, yet he knew why she had as he listened to the servants going about their business. They would have to wake and dress and go about their ordinary lives. He would have to tell her of Bertie’s message, that he had to return to London, when all he really wanted to do was run into her room and lift her into his arms again.
Somehow, this all seemed like exceedingly poor timing. Yet he would not have traded their night for anything. They were truly married now. She was truly his.
As he was hers. And he could not wait to see her again, to hold her.
But she was probably sleeping now, and he would be a complete rudesby to wake her! He would get up and go for a ride before breakfast. That was the only way he could think of to work off some of his new energy, so he would not frighten Emma with his ardor when next they met.
———
When Emma next awoke, the sun was high in the sky, a bright yellow brilliance in a perfect summer-blue sky. She tried to keep her eyes closed against its dazzle, to hold onto her dream for as long as possible. And what a wonderful, perfect dream it had been!
She shifted and stretched—and suddenly froze, surprised at the unexpected stiffness in her limbs. She cautiously opened her eyes and peered down at herself. Her nightdress was wrinkled, her hair falling over her shoulders in disarray.
It had been no dream. It had been reality—wonderful, amazing reality! In truth, nothing anyone could have said would have prepared her for it. It was like moving into some exotic new land with no maps, no guide. It was strange but unbearably beautiful. A place a person could happily visit again and again.
She lay back and closed her eyes, remembering every step of that voyage. Every step she could remember— much of it was a tangle of impressions, of sensations and feelings. She had thought it quite perfect, but then she had nothing to compare it to. She wondered what Jack had thought of it. Had thought of her.
She was still contemplating this when the door clicked. Emma opened her eyes to see Natasha carrying the breakfast tray in just as she did every morning. It seemed so odd, so incongruous, that today should begin just like every other day. There should be music, fireworks!
Instead, there was toast and a pot of chocolate. Ah, well, Emma thought, as she looked down at the little jar of marmalade, the tiny pats of butter. There was something to be said for toast and chocolate, especially when one was completely ravenous. She spread the marmalade on one of the golden squares of bread and popped it in her mouth.
“Good morning, Natasha!” she sang out, when she had swallowed that first delectable bite.
“Good morning, my lady,” Natasha answered, going about her daily business of pouring out water for washing and laying out a morning dress and all its accessories. “You sound very cheerful today!”
“Oh, I am, Natasha. I am.” Later, she would surely tell Natasha, and Madame Ana, too, of what had happened. They deserved it, after all their advice. For now, though, she wanted to hold it close, keep it as her very own secret.
She just hoped Natasha would not notice the disgraceful state of her nightdress.
“You know, Natasha, I have been thinking. We should have some sort of gathering here at Weston Manor,” she said, as she stirred her cup of chocolate.
“A gathering? Like a ball?” Natasha paused in fussing with the ruffled cuff of the morning dress, her face lighting up with interest.
“Perhaps nothing so grand as a ball. Not in the middle of summer.” Truth to tell, the idea of a soiree had only just occurred to Emma, and she had no idea as to the particulars. She liked the thought, though. She liked the idea of her and Jack entertaining as a real couple. A real family. “Maybe a picnic? Or a garden party. My mother used to have those here, I think.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hemmings has spoken of it. Everyone enjoyed them so much! Madame Ana would love to help you plan a gathering, my lady. I think she has been a bit bored with no social calendar to arrange!”
“Has she? Well, we cannot have that. She will help me plan the picnic. I will have to talk to Ja—Lord St. Albans about it. Did he come down to breakfast, Natasha?” Emma asked, trying to stay casual and nonchalant, not to show her enormous eagerness, her delight in just saying his name.
“Oh, yes, my lady. He and that Mr. Stonewich took breakfast early and then went out riding. I do not think they have returned yet.”
“Indeed? Out riding?” Emma took a sip of her chocolate to cover her disappointment. It was ridiculous to be disappointed, of course; she could hardly have run through the house to him now, in her dishabille. But she was. “Hm. Well, after I am bathed and dressed, I will go back over the menus for luncheon and supper. I want to be sure there is enough, now that we have a guest.”
Only as she finished her food did she notice the note tucked neatly beneath her plate. A note with her name written on it in her husband’s strong, sprawling hand.
She read it and smiled, pressing the paper to her heart. “ ‘Come live with me and be my love…’” she whispered.
———
It was almost time for luncheon when Emma, closeted with Madame Ana in the small sitting room at the top of the stairs she used for an office, heard Jack come back to the house. She listened to him and Bertie enter the foyer downstairs, laughing loudly.
Apparently, he had been off having a grand time while she thought back over last night, wondered what would happen when they met again. Well, really, who could blame him? She felt like running and laughing herself.
She glanced at Madame Ana across the desk, over the lists of guests and supplies for their picnic. Madame Ana still wrote in her notebook, not looking up, and Emma remembered that she needed to ask Bertie Stonewich to curb his licentious tendencies around her.
“Perhaps another dozen of those small lemon cakes from the confectioner in the village, Lady St. Albans?” Madame Ana asked, jotting down a note. “And some sparkling cider?”
“Yes, I think so. That, added to what we already listed, should be enough food for the guests, don’t you think? I do not want anyone to be hungry.”
Madame Ana gave a small smile. “Oh, I doubt anyone will be hungry.”
“Except for us, right now! It is almost time for luncheon. Will you join us?”
“For luncheon?” Madame Ana’s gaze shifted uncertainly behind her spectacles. She stared down at her notebook as if the answer might be written there.
“Yes, for luncheon,” Emma said. “If you are concerned about Mr. Stonewich…”
“Why should I be concerned about Mr. Stonewich? Forgive me, Lady St. Albans, for I know he is friends with your husband, but last night he showed himself a drunken lout. I have dealt with such men before, and I have no fear I can do so again.”
A drunken lout. Emma knew that Bertie went to great lengths to give just such an impression. She remembered watching him stagger down a crowded street with Lottie. But she also remembered the shrewd, serious glances he would give her when he thought she did not notice. There was more to Bertie Stonewich, she was sure—just as there was more to Jack.
That did not give him the right to harass Madame Ana, or anyone else, though.
“You will not have to ‘deal with it,’ “ Emma said. “He will not bother you any further. And I would truly appreciate it if you would join us for luncheon. We needn’t be formal here at our own home.”
Madame Ana considered this and finally nodded. “Very well. I will just go and tidy myself first.”
After Madame Ana left, Emma straightened her own hair at the small mirror on the wall and fluffed up the lace ruffle of her chemisette. She looked the same as she had before. How strange that was, she thought. Shouldn’t she have changed in some marked, outward fashion after last night?
She laughed at her own silliness and caught up her shawl to go downstairs to the drawing room.
Jack was alone there, his dark hair damp and brushed back, obviously fresh from a washing after his ride. He had changed from his outdoor tweeds and buckskins into a neat blue coat and fresh cravat.
He stood beside one of the tall windows that looked out onto the back gardens, its green expanse sloping away into the distance. He seemed to be deep in thought, and not a truly pleasant thought at that. A tiny frown creased his face between his eyes, and the grooves that ran alongside his beautiful mouth were deeper than usual.
Emma had an irresistible urge to kiss those lines away, to make a smile appear on his lips. She went to his side and slid her arm around his waist.
He glanced down at her, and that smile appeared. He put his arms about her and kissed her forehead. “There you are, my dear!” he exclaimed, as if he had not seen her face for days even though it had truly only been hours. “How was your morning?”
“Not as fine as my night,” she teased, surprising even herself with her boldness.
Jack laughed and pulled her closer. “Nor was mine, I daresay! I took Bertie about to see the estate. It was terribly dusty, but we met some new people.”
“Did you? You must tell me about them. Madame Ana and I have been planning a picnic to be held in the garden next week. I could invite them.”
His smile dimmed a bit. “A picnic? Next week?”
Emma leaned back to look up at him, a tiny misgiving forming as she watched his gaze slide away from hers. “Yes. I thought we should begin to entertain, to meet all our neighbors. Do you think a picnic would not be a good idea?”
“I think it is a fine idea,” he said. He smiled again, but it was not quite the same. It was too hearty and reassuring. “It is just that I must go to London, and I do not know if I can return by then.”
“London!” Emma cried, and stepped back from him. “This is our wedding trip. Is there some emergency? Is— is someone ill?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he said, hastening to reassure her. He took her hand, holding it in his, forcing her to stay connected to him. “I just need to go on business. That is why Bertie came here, to bring the message. I will not be gone long.”
“But what about the picnic?” she asked wistfully, trying not to let her voice slide into a pathetic whine—even if she felt like whining.
“I will be sorry to miss it, but you should go ahead with it. It will be good to get to know our neighbors, just as you said. Perhaps when I return, we could have a card party or a supper.”
“But…” Emma scarcely knew what she was going to say, what her protests were. She only knew that she did not want him to go, not now, not when things were suddenly so very right between them.
She half feared that if he went away, the distance between London and Weston Manor might break that fragile new cord connecting them.
“I will not be gone for long,” he said again. “And you need not fear that anyone will—annoy you while I am away.”
She had no idea what he was talking of. Someone might annoy her? She could barely process the idea that he was leaving. “Annoy me?”
“Such as Sir Jeremy Ashbey.”
“Oh. Yes.” She had forgotten he was even in the neighborhood. Surely that should just be another reason for Jack to stay at Weston Manor?
“Bertie will stay here and keep a watch for me. If anything happens, you need only write to me. But…”
“But you will not be gone for long,” Emma finished for him, smiling to keep from dissolving into childish tears.
He smiled, too, and leaned down to kiss her. “Correct! A few days at the most. I may even be back in time for your picnic.”
She kissed him back, leaning into him, holding onto him for as long as she could. She only moved away when she heard the drawing room door open.
Emma wiped quickly at her eyes with the back of her hand and turned to smile at Bertie and Madame Ana, who stood there watching them. “Well!” she said brightly. “I do hope you are all hungry. Cook has promised us her famous salmon croquettes!”
Chapter Thirty-One
Even with all the allied monarchs and their entourages gone, London was still busier than ever, Jack thought. He stepped out of his lodgings onto a street crowded with people laughing, shouting, hurrying to who-knew-where. He moved out into the flow, knowing exactly where he was going—to a meeting with Mr. Thompson. But in the meantime he could enjo
y the journey. And decide what he would do after the meeting.
He had no desire to go to his club, to get foxed with his old cronies. He did not want to go to his parents’ house to hear any more talk of his supposed “reform.”
He only wanted to see his wife. To talk to her, laugh with her. Make love to her again.
That above all.
He paused on the corner of the street, watching the life of the city move past him. None of his old pastimes appealed to him at all. Even the work, as necessary as it still was, did not hold the same thrill.
He had to laugh at himself, even as he reached inside his coat to touch Emma’s blue nightdress ribbon there. Jack Howard was certainly a bachelor no longer.
———
“I am glad you could join us in Town, Lord St. Albans,” Mr. Thompson said, cool and expressionless as always, as he poured out a brandy for Jack. “I know it must be difficult for you to tear yourself away from your lovely wife so soon after the wedding.”
“Indeed,” Jack answered shortly, and sipped at the warm liquid. He wondered where the colonel was, or some of the other men. Why was he alone with Thompson this evening?
The man seemed in no hurry to explain, however. He placed his own glass on the table and steepled his fingers together, regarding Jack over their tips.
Finally, he said, “And since I know how eager you are to get back to your bucolic pleasures, I will be brief. We need you to travel to Vienna, to attend the congress planned there. Perhaps your wife would care to join you? She will no doubt be happy to see her relatives again.”
“Of course. I would be honored to go to Vienna,” Jack answered. And Emma would be glad to visit her aunt and uncle there. But this could have been written in a letter. He did not have to come to London to hear it.
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