by Ella Edon
She shook her head, and looked at her feet. He noticed that her eyelashes were very dark and long where they lay against the softness of her skin. He felt his throat tightening, and coughed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice trembled. “I can’t let you go. Not yet.”
“But why?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But I haven’t told my father. He would know best what I should do with you.”
“Um, yes,” Luke nodded. He himself had some suggestions of things they might do together, but none of them were seemly, and certainly not for a public thoroughfare. “Yes, that’s clear.”
“In which case,” she said softly. “It’s time we go back.”
“Yes.”
Neither of them spoke. He grunted, feeling his throat tight with unsaid things. “Milady?” he inquired softly.
“Yes?”
“Um, thank you,” he said. “For caring.”
She stared up at him, those blue eyes wide with surprise. “Of course, I care!”
He felt his heart jolt. She looked at her feet, shyly.
“Forget I said that,” she mumbled.
“I can’t forget.”
They didn’t look at each other. He felt her posture tense beside him. He shifted, feeling awkward.
“Shall we go?” Luke suggested.
“Yes.”
They walked together to the end of the roadway. There, as she had mentioned, the carriage waited. He looked up at it and, oddly, he didn’t feel as much reluctance as he’d expected, to be getting into it again.
“You first, milady.”
“Thanks, milord,” she murmured shyly. He lifted her up into the coach. She had small hands, he noticed, the fingers fine-boned. He gripped her fingers briefly and she flushed.
This time, as the coach rolled back, heading up round the Exchange and down towards the river, he felt truly shy.
“Have you ever…” he began.
“When I was…” she said at the same time.
They both stopped, awkwardly. Luke chuckled. “Your turn first,” he said gallantly.
She smiled, dazzlingly.
“When I was a girl,” she said, “Papa and I used to go to St. James’ Park, for hours at a time. We walked the avenues and sat by the fountain. I used to love the fountains.” She shook her head, eyes downcast. “It’s silly.”
“Why is it silly?” he asked gently.
“Well, you’re a stranger. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. I just…” She covered her eyes with her hand. He heard her sniff.
“I understand,” he said softly.
She didn’t say anything. The coach turned sharply and he balled his fists, pressing into the seat. He didn’t want to jostle her – it seemed terribly rude, right now.
After a moment, she looked up at him. “What were you going to say?” she asked gently. “It looks like you had a bad time, in there?”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing, really.”
“If your uncle needs you, I should let you go to him.”
He felt his heart melt as she looked at him, her eyes full of tender trustworthiness. She had no pretense, no dissembling. After the smooth accountant and his bland uncaring, he felt it even more touching than before.
“It’s alright,” he said gruffly. “He’ll live. I think he will, anyway.”
“Oh, dear!” Emilia reached out to take his hands. The gesture – completely guileless – touched his heart.
“It’s alright,” he muttered again. He squeezed her fingers. They were warm and very soft. He felt the touch tingle all the way down to his toes. Again, he wondered at the fact that they were all alone, just the two of them, in a carriage.
“We’re almost back,” she told him.
“So we are.”
He leaned back, and squinted through the side of the curtain. If he looked, he could just see the riverbank, the Thames – a wide track of silver, shimmering dully in the dawn – sliding past.
“You were going to say something,” she said, as they turned another corner, heading towards Kensington, where her father’s residence stood.
“Um, no,” he said, frowning. Then he recalled it. “Oh. Yes. I was going to say, have you ever been to Knollford’s?”
“Um, no,” she said, hesitant. “Is it a coffee-house?”
“A coffee house, as well as a chocolate house,” he said decisively. “It makes the finest chocolate in town. I really am fond of chocolate. And jam pastries, too. I think you’d like it.”
She grinned. “I don’t know why it’s obvious I have a fondness for chocolate.”
He laughed. “You seem rather sweet,” he said.
They stared at each other. He went red. He hoped she didn’t notice. He looked at his hands where they rested in his lap.
When he looked up again, she was looking at him. Her eyes were wide, one brow lifted. She smiled, lips twisting with some irony.
“I’m going to forget you said that,” she said. “It will make things easier for everyone. But before I do, thank you. And yes, I think it’s an idea.”
“What is?” he wondered, confused. He couldn’t think about anything except her smile.
“Having coffee together,” she said. “At Knollford’s. When this is all concluded.”
“Yes.” He nodded, feeling his heart lift. “When this is all concluded.”
They headed on through the streets into the brightening morning.
Chapter Seven
Pastries and Perspicacity
Emilia collapsed into the seat in the drawing-room, feeling exhausted. The clock on the mantel said it was only half an hour past ten, but she felt as if she’d been drained of energy. She closed her eyes for a moment. The sun was streaming through the window, a fine morning.
“Whew.”
She recalled the drive in the coach with Luke. It had been pleasant, as if the two of them had popped out to town to the chocolate-house and perhaps a walk in the park. It was strange how natural it felt to be alone with him.
I almost wish we’d known each other for ages and we’d met under different circumstances.
He was, after all, exactly the type of man her father would have wished her to meet. He was an earl; she was the daughter of an earl. He was kind, as far as she could tell, and funny, and rather terribly handsome…
Emilia Herston! Stop it.
She shook her head as her tummy tingled with pleasure. She had no business to be indulging in daydreams about Luke Preston! She should be making plans about what to do about the real duke. And she needed to find Papa – it was time to tell him the truth.
She stood as she heard Mrs. Prime entering with swift footsteps. The housekeeper, when she saw Emilia, she sighed.
“There you are, milady!” She frowned. “Your Papa was asking for you.”
“How is Papa?” Emilia inquired, feeling guilty for not having visited earlier. “Does he feel better?”
“He looks as cheery as a sparrow.” Mrs. Prime smiled.
Emilia was already walking down the hallway. “Where is he now?”
“In the breakfast-room,” the housekeeper called back.
Emilia walked quickly, pausing outside of the door.
“Papa?” she called out. He was sitting at the table, a teacup at his place, a tray of pastries on the table, uneaten. His hair, white and silvery where the sun touched it, glowed in the shaft of sunlight.
He turned slowly. “Emilia!” His face lit up. “There you are. Come to see your old Papa, hey?”
Emilia grinned and sat down opposite him, taking his hands in hers. They felt cool, the skin as fine as tissue-paper.
“Father! It’s so good to know you’re feeling better.”
“I am.” He nodded. “Not much better, but a little.”
“Did you manage to eat something?” Emilia asked.
“I do wish people would stop asking,” the earl said wryly. “Or I’ll come away with the notion you’re conspiring to feed me poi
son.”
“Father!” Emilia chuckled. “You know it’s nothing of the sort.” She glanced at the tray of pastries. There was one with a bite-mark in it, but it seemed as if he’d given up on it. Her heart tightened. Had he eaten anything these last two days?
“Mrs. Prime made me a dish of eggs,” he said, seeing her expression. “I did eat it, or most of it.”
“Good,” she nodded, making a mental note to ask the housekeeper if that was true. She studied her father’s face. He looked better than he had, his eyes alive with their old humor. She swallowed hard. It was time she told him what she’d done.
“What’s the matter, sweetling?” He frowned in concern.
“Um, father…” she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Remember how we were talking about the problem you have with the duke?”
“Yes?” His blue eyes looked strained. “I shouldn’t have made you worry, my sweetling. It’s nothing a good few ruffians couldn’t settle.” He chuckled, but she heard the tension in his voice.
“Um, well…a few ruffians tried to settle it. We, um…things did not quite work as planned.”
“We?” Her father took her hand, squeezing the fingers. He looked concerned for her. She wet her lips nervously. “Emilia? What happened? You can tell me.”
Emilia closed her eyes. Her voice was somewhere, but she couldn’t find it. “Um…father,” she croaked. “I did what you suggested. I kidnapped him. But I kidnapped the wrong one.”
“You kidnapped him?” Her father sounded incredulous. She risked looking at him. He was smiling. She felt her entire body melt with relief.
“Father…I didn’t find the right man.”
“You tried, though.” His eyes were teary. “You…of all the people I know, everyone who might have come forth to help me…my own daughter. My own brave, wonderful daughter. You were the only one.”
He was crying. She felt her own eyes grow damp. She leaned forward, her hands reaching for his shoulders. They embraced. He was even skinnier than when she’d last hugged him, she thought – his shoulders felt narrow and fragile in her grip.
“I didn’t get anything right, though, Father,” she sniffed, as they both sat back.
He reached for his handkerchief, dabbing at his eyes. When he looked back up at her, he was smiling.
“You tried, though, daughter. And that’s more than I can say for anyone I know.”
“Harris helped,” Emilia said firmly.
“Harris did what he did because it was your idea.”
She smiled. “I hadn’t thought about that,” she admitted at length. “Though, perhaps if he’d acted on his own initiative, it would have worked better. Mayhap…”
“You did well, daughter,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “I’m proud.”
Emilia felt her vision blur with fresh tears. She drew out her own handkerchief and dabbed swiftly at her eyes. “Oh, Father.”
They sat in the silence for a while. Emilia closed her eyes a moment. She needed to ask him what to do to right the mistake that she had made.
“Father, about the man I caught…”
“Serves him right,” Lord Mowbray chuckled. “You’re a clever girl, Emilia.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said. “But, um…should I let him go?”
The earl shrugged. “I suppose we have to, sweetling. Where have you incarcerated him, if I may ask?”
Emilia flushed. The fact that her father was completely accepting of the idea that she had been alone with a man – that she must have been, in order to capture him – amazed her afresh.
“In the study, Father.”
He frowned. “Good plan – the servants wouldn’t hear him in that part of the house. But, daughter?”
“Yes?” Emilia’s heart pattered fast.
“You’re going to have to make him swear not to reveal anything he may have seen there. Or read. He could have seen anything!” He looked horrified. She saw him run his hands through his hair, biting his lip.
Another thought struck her – her father was more concerned about the secrets in his ledgers than he was about her having been alone in another man’s company.
“Father?” she asked softly. She didn’t want to be upset by that – after all, he’d reacted better than anyone might expect. But, then, if he was any other father, would she have been doing such things in the first place?
“Yes, daughter? Now, don’t fret. I’m sure we can manage this…make him swear an oath or something…you can bring him in here and let me witness it, mayhap, or...”
“Father!”
“What, my sweetling? Why do you look so sad?”
“You really don’t care, do you?” she wondered. She didn’t want to think it, but it seemed truer every moment. “It really is all just business to you, isn’t it? That’s all that really matters.”
“Emilia, no…!” He looked at her, horrified, but she had already started crying. She stood, pushing back her chair and walked swiftly from the room.
“Milady…” Mrs. Prime passed her in the hallway. Emilia just shook her head.
“Later, please, Mrs. Prime,” she called out, going to her bedchamber. Slamming the door behind her, she sat down on the bed, covering her face with her hands. She felt foolish, but she couldn’t help it. It felt as if, all her life, she hadn’t seen how selfish her father was. Now that she had seen it, she felt as if she’d always just been a fool.
“I need to stop crying and fix up my messes.”
She made herself stand and go to her bedroom mirror. There, she splashed her face in the bowl of water on the night-stand, running a comb through her hair. She looked tired and sad. She dabbed at her cheeks, wishing they looked less red; and her nose, too. It was clear that she had been crying.
She reached for the little dish of face-powder that she’d asked June to buy at the apothecary for her – though the use of makeup was frowned upon – only actresses wore makeup – she knew many of her friends used it anyway. She dabbed it on swiftly with the little square of sheep’s wool.
“There.”
She studied the effect. The rosy tint of her nose and cheeks was covered; she looked pale and tired, but not as if she’d just spent the morning in tears.
Turning away from the mirror, she went upstairs to free the captive.
* * *
Luke was sitting, and reading a book he’d found nestled between the dusty ledgers on the shelf. It was a fairly tedious book about the history of sea-voyages. It was better than sitting and thinking too hard.
The more I think, the more likely I am to go quite mad.
He still had no idea why he had let himself be voluntarily brought back to this study, locked in with no way to escape. He could have simply walked away from Emilia in the street, that morning. What had stopped him?
He heard footsteps. A knock sounded at the door.
“Hello?”
He recognized that voice! He shot upright, closing the book, as she walked in. She strode across to the window-seat and turned to face him. They both spoke at the same time.
“Lord Westmore, the…”
“I thought we…”
He swallowed hard, embarrassed.
“You first,” he said, with a gesture to her to begin. He sat down on the velvet-covered seat again.
“Um, I was going to say that it’s time I released you,” Emilia said. She blinked and Luke frowned. Had she been crying? Her eyes were rimmed with red. Her voice sounded shaky.
“Milady, what is the matter?” He frowned. “You seem distressed.”
“I’m not distressed,” she shot back. She sat down on the window-seat, then looked away into the flames.
“Forgive me,” he said swiftly.
“What were you going to say?”
“Nothing of import. I was only going to say that I thought we could, mayhap, go out to the terrace. It’s a lovely day, and it would be nice to have fresh air.”
“Well, you can have all the fresh air you please,” she snapped
. “I was a fool to ever bring you here…”
Without warning, she covered her face in her hands. Shoulders shaking, she started to sob, wordlessly. Luke, horrified, sprang up and went to her.
“No…” He sat down beside her, placing his hand on her shoulder. He rubbed it gently. “What is it? No…I’m so sorry!”
