“I must admit, I always find myself returning home a little sooner if you are not there,” he confessed as they meandered down the street.
“And I’m not bad to look at either!”
Her jest was well-intended, but she had not expected a response.
“No, not at all,” he said without guile.
He really was an innocent, Emma decided.
“And yet I am sure I am just one of the many beautiful women you know,” Emma said as nonchalantly as she could as they crossed the street. “You must have encountered many on your Grand Tour.”
It was a statement, not a question. She knew asking a question may raise suspicions.
“Oh, yes, there are pretty women all over the place,” said Braedon with a laugh. “Some of the places I have seen, you wouldn’t believe! I think Egypt surprised me the most––no, perhaps the very southern tip of Italy. Did you know…”
His voice continued, and Emma nodded, but she had ceased to heed him. If he was wealthy enough to go on a Grand Tour, he was wealthy enough to be her patron.
Patron! She sugar-coated it even in her mind. It was difficult to hold one’s head up high when one leeched off others to survive, as she did, but Emma always managed it.
After all, she reasoned, every wife depended on her husband, every daughter on her father. Some mothers on their sons!
There was no shame in recognizing one could not support oneself and seeking out that support.
Besides, as a former mistress to the Earl of Marnmouth, there were few opportunities available to her. She needed to do what she must.
Emma smiled and cut across Braedon’s monology. “I have never been abroad, though it is something that I have longed to do.”
“Perhaps we could go together!” he blurted. Immediately, he sensed the ridiculousness of his words, as he added, “You must think me a fool for suggesting such a thing.”
It was perhaps the most endearing thing he had said. Impulsively, Emma leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“’Tis a lovely thought,” she said kindly, “but for now, London must suffice. Why do we not continue our walk in Hyde Park? We could stroll together every day if the weather holds up…”
Chapter Four
A spurt of ink flew over his desk as Braedon threw down his quill in disgust. He sighed, looking at the splatter of ink now staining the mahogany wood. Fisher would not appreciate the mess, likely impossible to clean, but it could not be helped.
His irritation was now realized in the page before him.
You must allow me to finally put into words the thoughts which have consumed my mind for many years now before it was even possible to approach you due to the close connection you formed with an acquaintance of mine. I held back due to a misconstrued idea that it would be dishonorable to approach before you could…
Braedon blinked. How Miss Tilbury would be able to understand it!
Even he was starting to get into a muddle about what he was trying to say!
“Damn and blast it,” muttered Braedon as he crumpled up the paper and threw it toward the wastepaper bin on the other side of his study. Around it lay his previous attempts, which had consumed the entire morning.
He had been convinced writing his thoughts would help him explain his emotions. Just a few days ago, they had walked to Hyde Park, and what had he said?
“Perhaps we could go together! You must think me a fool for suggesting such a thing.”
The mere memory of his words made Braedon cringe. He was not a poor speaker; at least, he had never considered himself one. He had always been understood and never had any trouble with the ladies.
Not that he had ever pursued any ladies. Courting had never been top of his mind, Braedon admitted. He was young, had so much time.
But now, he could accept the truth. It was because no other woman was Miss Tilbury.
“Perhaps we could go together!”
Braedon cringed again. Oh, God, he could not have said something so foolish, could he? She must think him an absolute fool!
That was probably his one chance. He should have taken the opening to impress her, woo her, say something flattering. His friends had wooed their wives, often against the odds.
So why was it almost impossible for him to say anything half-meaningful to the woman who had captured his heart?
“How long have you waited for such a day, you idiot,” Braedon muttered, pulling a fresh piece of paper toward him and looking down at the intimidating blankness, just waiting for his quill. “A few hours with Emma Tilbury?”
And yet, when it was offered to him, when she had just turned up at his townhouse, what had he done? Blabbed on about nothing. The nonsense spouted from his mouth! He was surprised she had suggested their walk continue to Hyde Park. She must have been so bored.
Braedon picked up his quill and took a deep breath. At least with a letter, he could carefully consider what he wanted to say and then construct sentences without his mouth getting away from him.
If only he could write the damned thing.
Closing his eyes, Braedon lost himself in the memories of that day just last week. Emma, in his drawing room. She was seated in his armchair. If his butler had not made pointed comments about strange ladies demanding entrance, he might have thought it all a dream.
Clearing his throat, Braedon attacked the paper with renewed vigor, determined this time to construct a letter which could adequately explain his feelings. He was overthinking this. Simplicity was best.
After a frantic ten minutes, he looked down at his work.
Dear Miss Tilbury,
It would greatly please me if we could arrange another walk in Hyde Park. Perhaps we could say next Monday at eleven o’clock? If it is not too much of a bother, of course, and if you are not already engaged. It is quite understandable if you are.
I remain your loyal servant,
A. F. Braedon
Too pathetic, he decided, screwing it up and throwing it across the room. Besides, it was too boring. A walk? They had been on a walk, and it showed no imagination.
“Think like Marnmouth,” Braedon muttered, closing his eyes and trying desperately to embody a man who was over a decade his senior, his superior in title, and with far more confidence than he had ever possessed.
What about a ride? Braedon always felt more comfortable on a horse. Perhaps he could speak to Miss Tilbury without making a fool of himself if astride Thunder.
The idea was a good one, and he was halfway through the next letter before he halted his quill.
Dear Miss Tilbury,
I would like to invite you to accompany me on a ride through Hyde Park, assuming the weather is good, on Monday at eleven o’clock. I will meet you…
No, that was no good either. Braedon bit his lip, irritated beyond belief.
A ride? What did he think he was doing––he did not even know whether the woman had a horse! How could he presume to such wealth when he was almost certain she had no source of income at the present?
Right. Back to basics. How did one seduce a woman?
Braedon swallowed. He had never been particularly charming––well-meaning, always, but never the gentleman ladies gravitated to. He did not have wit, a quick tongue, or that clever way of telling a woman she was the most beautiful in the room without offending the others.
Dearest Miss Tilbury,
You are beautiful.
Braedon threw down his quill again. Oh, hell. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! When one had the chance to woo the woman one had been besotted with from a distance, words were supposed to just…just come! It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult!
Besides, he was sure Miss Tilbury would never consider him as a serious suitor after being mistress to an earl.
Braedon leaned back in his chair. Thinking about it, he had never heard the story of how Philip Egerton and Miss Emma Tilbury had formed their arrangement.
One day he would––no, that would be impossible. H
e was an acquaintance of Marnmouth, but not much more than that. He could never bring up something so delicate.
Sighing heavily, Braedon dropped his head into his hands. No one had ever caught his eye like Emma, from the moment he first saw her.
Marnmouth had thrown a dinner party, something he did fairly regularly, but this time there was a hostess alongside him. A woman with fiery red hair and a laugh that made anything funny. She had made a witty remark about him, and he could not recall what now. It had been years ago when Braedon had been but seventeen.
His first Season in London. He had never expected such notice from an earl and had never gained the notice of the red-haired woman again.
And now Miss Tilbury was unattached, and Braedon burned to take her to his bed. Perhaps that would rid him of this…this obsession, a lust he could not quell.
Miss Tilbury. He wanted her, yet had no ability to express it without sounding like a fool.
Besides, he thought as he raised his head from his hands and looked at the crumpled paper on the other side of the room, nothing he tried to say made any sense.
Without conscious thought and simply following his instincts, Braedon stood up suddenly and strode across the room, throwing open the door and rattling down the stairs. There was one place in the world that he always felt at peace, where his harried thoughts would slow.
The heady scent of hay and warm horse greeted him as he stepped into the stall, and Braedon breathed deeply.
The stables. Was it strange that this, of all places in the world, was where he could think clearly?
“Hullo, y’lordship.”
Braedon smiled at the lad blinking up at him. “Good morning, Tom.”
“Heading out, m’lord?”
Really he should go back inside, finish the damned letter, and then look over those accounts Fisher had brought him to review. Only he could approve the changes in staff at Tidgley Manor, after all, and they were in sore need of another gardener now Old Harrison had retired. And a cook here, too. He could not survive on Fisher’s cooking much longer.
“Yes, I am going for a ride,” he said impetuously. Paperwork be damned. “Saddle up Thunder, will you?”
After all, Braedon justified silently as he watched Tom finish buckling on the tack, he was only going out for an hour or two. Paperwork could wait until then. The last post wouldn’t be until this evening, so there was no rush. Clear the cobwebs from his mind, that’s what he needed.
It wasn’t until he had mounted and started trotting down the street that he realized how late in the day it was. Though winter was a long way off, autumn was certainly starting to nestle into the heat of the day, and the mid-afternoon sun had already passed its peak.
It did not matter. Braedon felt more alive with the wind in his hair and Thunder beneath him, the two acting as one, knowing instinctively where they were going, than he ever had done sitting at that desk.
Hyde Park was busier than he had expected. Always a popular place for riding due to its expansive space, there were ladies riding in pairs with their habits flaring out behind them, and many gentlemen riding alone were doing circuits around the larger part of the park.
And there, meandering through the middle of them, evidently not caring whether she was in the way, was a woman riding alone.
Curious. Braedon was not one to follow social etiquette blindly, but even he agreed that a woman riding on her own was liable to get into trouble of some sort. Ladies should be accompanied.
Telling himself it was absolutely nothing to do with the mysterious lady, Braedon nudged his horse in that general direction and found his mouth falling in surprise as Miss Emma Tilbury came into focus.
Emma.
Braedon’s heart started to race. He could not have planned this better if he had tried. Not only was it now clear Miss Tilbury did indeed have a horse in London, but she evidently enjoyed riding. Why else would she be out here on her own, unchaperoned?
Swallowing did nothing to steady his nerves. He had to stay calm. He could not lose focus.
True, it was a little scandalous that Miss Tilbury had given no thought to riding alone, but he could not have orchestrated a better meeting.
Desperately praying to any god who was listening that he would not allow his tongue to get the better of him this time, Braedon allowed Thunder to slow to a gentle trot as he approached her.
“Why, ’tis Viscount Braedon!” Miss Tilbury looked pleased. “My, I could not have predicted you would be here. Good afternoon, sir.”
Her lilting voice and genuine smile did much to calm Braedon, releasing the tension in his shoulders and loosening the uncomfortable grip on Thunder’s reins.
She was pleased to see him. Let’s start with that.
“How pleasant to see you again so soon, Miss Tilbury,” said Braedon. “And I must compliment you on your riding. I have never seen a lady ride with such confidence and elegance.”
It was, perhaps, the most sensible thing he had ever managed to say to her, and Braedon was rewarded with a little color in her cheeks.
“You flatter me, and I would encourage you to do so again at every opportunity,” Miss Tilbury said prettily, their horses falling into step together. “I have the pleasure so infrequently, and I often stay out later than I should. This beautiful mare is a borrow from a friend. I cannot afford to keep a––I mean, I don’t want to keep a horse in the city.”
Braedon realized he was seeing a genuine blush of embarrassment on Emma Tilbury’s face for the first time.
“I cannot afford to keep a––I mean, I don’t want to keep a horse in the city.”
Well, it should not be a surprise. Now he thought about it, it was incredible she had managed to last this long without a protector––at least, one he knew about. How did she pay her expenses?
“Well, then I am all the more glad I have happened upon you today,” he said gallantly, ignoring her slip of the tongue. “Please, I would be glad of your company.”
Braedon glanced at Miss Tilbury as he spoke. She was a little ashamed of her revelation, but the color was receding, and she was able to accept his invitation with good grace.
“Besides, I am not the only expert on a steed, by the looks of it,” she added with just as much warmth in her voice as before. “You are an excellent rider, your lordship.”
Braedon smiled. “Thank you, Miss Tilbury, though I would prefer it if you called me Braedon, everyone does.”
Miss Tilbury smiled. “Why, your lordship, we barely know each other.”
“And yet I feel as though I have known you for longer,” said Braedon without thinking. “Much longer.”
They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, until Miss Tilbury broke it. “Well, Braedon, I repeat––you are a wonderful rider. Why, I hardly notice you touching your horse.”
“I never feel happier than when I am on a horse.”
Miss Tilbury looked surprised. “Truly? You always look so happy whenever I see you in society.”
“Do not misunderstand me,” Braedon said hastily as they passed a pair of ladies on their horses, inclining their heads to each other. “’Tis not that I dislike society, far from it. But there is something about being on horseback…one becomes closer to nature, closer to true balance. I-I cannot explain it any better.”
Had he made a fool of himself again? He looked over at Miss Tilbury, and she was nodding.
“I know what you mean,” she said softly. “One can escape the world.”
It was so precisely what he was attempting to say that Braedon felt a rush of affection. No one else had ever understood him like she did.
“How far were you planning to ride?” he said, looking at her horse. “I have no wish to tire your mare. You may have been out here for hours.”
Miss Tilbury shrugged, and Braedon swallowed at the rise and fall of her shoulders, giving him a greater view of her curvaceous body.
“Only for about twenty minutes or so, but before I returned, I was hoping to
do some cantering and galloping,” she said in a confessional tone. “You know, really feel alive.”
“Yes. Yes, that wild feeling, when one’s horse is at full tilt, and the rest of the world fades away.” Only then did Braedon realize he had spoken aloud.
She reached out and gripped his hand tightly.
“That,” she said in a low voice, “is precisely how I feel. God, I have never heard it put better.”
Her smile was warm and something once again lurched painfully in Braedon’s stomach. By God, he wanted her. He had never felt this way about anyone, and he was foolish probably, but could he sense something in her, too? Was there perhaps a connection growing between the two of them?
“If you want,” said Miss Tilbury, releasing his hand and speaking gently, “we could always race.”
Braedon laughed, half from nerves, half from disbelief. “Race? Miss Tilbury, that does not feel fair!”
Here he was with a stallion he knew well, fresh for the day, and…well, though he would not express it this way, he was a gentleman, she a mere lady.
“Do not underestimate me, Braedon,” said Miss Tilbury, somehow able to read his mind, his name on her tongue making him shiver. “I am not to be underestimated.”
Braedon nodded, unable to take his eyes away. “I would never do that, not knowingly. Not anymore.”
“Well, if you are going to be so confident, there should be some sort of forfeit.”
His heart quickened again at her words. “What sort of forfeit?”
There was something rather mischievous in Miss Tilbury’s eyes as she considered him. Then she said, “A kiss or a guinea.”
Braedon’s fingers fumbled on the reins. “I beg your pardon?”
“I win, you give me a guinea. You win, I give you a kiss.”
Now his heart was pounding so quickly, he could hardly think. This was a dream surely––or some sort of mistake. How could he lose? Either he lost a guinea, which was nothing…or he gained a kiss.
“Right,” he said, his voice slightly croaky. “First to the oaks over there, ’tis simple enough. Ready?”
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 4
