He knew what the gossip was. His butler had always been very good about that, sharing the tittle-tattle of the kitchen to ensure Braedon could cut any inaccuracies at the root.
The whispers about Emma––Miss Tilbury––being his mistress had been going on for years, which had made Braedon a little bashful. How his servants would laugh if they found out he had been unsuccessful for years!
Besides, the Braedon name needed heirs, and many of the kitchen maids wanted a baby in the house. Hadn’t Cook said, with no hint of shame, she had been an excellent wetnurse in her time?
“Ouch––my lord, please!”
Braedon’s glance had caught the clock on the mantelpiece, and his heart plummeted.
“Dear God, man, ’tis quarter to seven!” Braedon started pulling the half adjusted red waistcoat off in a panic. “She will be here soon, and I am not even dressed! The blue, the blue, pass it over here!”
The valet passed it over without comment, which Braedon thought was rather good of him. He would have to apologize to the man another time when he did not have his future bride arriving at the house in minutes.
His cravat took longer than he had imagined, his every heartbeat sounding another second that had passed before she arrived.
“Is Miss Tilbury expected to stay late this evening, my lord?” Morris asked delicately as he started to adjust his master’s dress jacket over his waistcoat.
Braedon frowned. He knew the real meaning of that question. The blasted man was inquiring whether Emma was going to stay the night!
He replied curtly, “None of your business, Morris.”
The real answer was that he did not know. Would Emma wish to be more formal in their engagement, wait and not allow themselves to succumb to the delights of the flesh before they were husband and wife?
Or, as he hoped, would she seal their agreement with a kiss…and perhaps more?
Braedon shivered, and his valet was forced to adjust his collar points again.
“My lord, you would be finished five minutes ago if you could just stay still!”
A little abashed, he tried to hold himself as still as possible.
“There,” said Morris with a heavy sigh. “You are ready for your…guest.”
Braedon decided to ignore the slight hesitation and pick his battles with his valet. The man did hem beautifully, and there was no one else in London who seemed able to secure shirts with such light stitching.
“Thank you,” he said shortly. Only a minute later, he was lightly stepping downstairs with a spring in his step.
Braedon looked at the clock in the hallway. Five minutes to seven. What was he supposed to do for the next five minutes?
A knock on the front door startled Braedon from his reverie, stomach swooping as though he had missed a step going downstairs.
His butler did not reach the door in time. Braedon had already thrown it open in the happy anticipation of the woman he loved.
“Emma,” he breathed.
Emma smiled briskly, joy not quite reaching her eyes, and stepped past him into the hallway.
“Ah, Miss Tilbury,” began Fisher. “May I take your––”
“No need, Fisher, no need,” said Braedon hastily, stepping between the two of them, as though protecting her from a marauding animal. “I am perfectly able to tend to Miss Tilbury. Thank you.”
The dismissal was abrupt and perhaps a little rude, but Braedon saw a dawning understanding in his servant’s eyes coupled with a little surprise.
Braedon watched the door to the servant’s corridor close before he leaned forward to kiss Emma.
By a charming coincidence, it was at that moment she stepped to the side. “Ah, I can see your townhouse is decorated in a similar way to Tidgley Manor.”
Emma’s words were stilted, her voice a little high. Nerves, Braedon thought with affection. As for the kiss––well, wasn’t it natural that she, too, wanted everything to be formal between them before they indulged in that most intimate of gestures?
“Here, let me help you with your pelisse, we can put it––”
“I will keep it on,” said Emma quietly. She had stepped backward out of reach of his questing fingers. “I cannot stay long.”
For the first time since her arrival, the smile on Braedon’s face started to fade.
He cleared his throat. “I-I do not understand. Your letter gave me to understand…I had thought you would be spending the evening here.”
“I did not say that,” said Emma quickly, her eyes darting around the room, unable, it seemed, to settle. “That was not written in the note.”
Braedon swallowed, his memory returning to that short missive.
Braedon.
I would appreciate it if I could call on you this evening at seven o’clock.
E. T.
Now he came to think of it, there was no mention of her intended stay.
“Still,” he said with a smile, “I had assumed you would wish to spend the evening with me––perhaps,” and his voice lowered despite their being alone in the hallway, “the night, too?”
Emma took a deep breath, the candlelight from the candelabra shimmering on her fiery red hair.
“I cannot marry you.”
Braedon stared, unable to do anything but blink. The words did not register. How could they, when he had clearly misheard her?
“I cannot marry you.”
No. Emma could not have said those words. He loved her, and more importantly, he was sure she loved him. Why would she not wish to marry him?
“B-But you said before––mistress in the park––when I asked you to…” Braedon’s spluttering was getting him nowhere, and with a great effort, he paused, tried to collect himself, and attempted it again. “I do not understand.”
Emma said nothing, merely looking utterly wretched.
Braedon waited, but it appeared she was not going to say another word. She was nervous; that was it. She was unsure whether she could assume the responsibility of being the wife of a viscount, the mother of viscounts. That was natural. All he had to do was assure her of his undying love, and they could be happy.
Taking a small step toward her and seeing with relief she did not take a similar step away, Braedon took a deep breath.
“I know it came as a shock to you when I first asked you to be my wife,” he said quietly. “But Emma, that was three days ago. I would have thought you would have time to acclimatize to it by now.”
Emma nodded, but her face had contorted into real anguish. “I have acclimatized to your question, my lord, but I am afraid I cannot give you the answer you want.”
My lord. Where had this come from, this formality? Her refusal rang in his ears, unable to disappear as she stood with real pain on her features.
The whole situation did not seem real. It could not be––perhaps he had fallen asleep on the bed whilst attempting to choose between waistcoats. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go.
“B-But we care about each other,” he said, the words sounding pathetic even to his ears.
Emma nodded, eyes red and threatening tears. “I am making this decision for you, for your good.”
“No, you’re not,” said Braedon instinctively. “You can’t be––you’re hurting me, Emma.”
She closed her eyes, unable to look at him as she poured out his heart to him.
“There are––there are many things you do not understand,” she said, eyes opening but refusing to look at him. “Reasons I cannot explain, that you––”
But Braedon was not going to allow his happiness to disappear. Boldly, he stepped forward and took Emma’s hands in his.
“Help me to understand,” he said urgently.
Emma’s eyes finally found his. Was there hope there, Braedon wondered? Did she just need to be encouraged?
“I love you, Emma,” he whispered. “I think I have done for a long time. If you would marry me, I am sure I could make you love me, make you happy, at the very least. P-
Please. Please say you will marry me.”
She was blinking away tears. “I could not make you happy.”
“Happy?” Braedon laughed quietly. “Emma, you have already made me happier than I ever have been!”
Was this her real concern––that this was a childish crush, that all real passion would disappear over time?
“But in the future––”
“Who can tell what the future will bring?” said Braedon dismissively. “I certainly can’t, and I defy anyone else to! All we can do is choose the happiness that stands before us, right now, in this moment!”
There was a moment of silence between them. He had convinced her. Braedon was sure of that. Who could bring a rebuttal to such a response?
Emma took a deep breath, her hands shaking in his. “Well, I can tell you what the future won’t bring, and that…that is children.”
It was so wildly different from what he had expected her to say that Braedon dropped her hands from the shock. What did she mean? How could she predict such things?
Tears were now streaming down Emma’s face. “Fitz––Braedon…I am barren. I have known it for a long time, and while that has been a blessing as a mistress, it would be terrible as a bride!”
Braedon just stared. None of these words were making sense.
“I cannot give you any children,” continued Emma in a broken voice. “Let alone sons to carry on the family name. If…if we married, then you would be the last Viscount Braedon.”
Astonishment rolled over him like a wave, all other emotions stifled by the shock of her words––and yet when it had dissipated, he discovered something rather startling.
“I do not care.”
Emma blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Braedon smiled. “I do not care. I told you, the line of Braedons doesn’t matter to me—at least, not more than you.”
She examined him as though waiting for him to continue, and then she said in a dull voice, “I only started flirting with you to get money, for the protection you and your name could offer me.”
Was this evening only going to be filled with painful pronouncements? Braedon’s heart twinged slightly, his pride bruised, but then was he that surprised? If there was one thing he knew about Emma Tilbury, it was that she had to protect herself. She had no one else.
“How…how do you feel about me now?”
The words were instinctive. He had to know.
Emma took a deep breath. “If I married you, it would only be for your money. Nothing else.”
Now there was pain. Braedon stepped backward, unable to comprehend what the woman he loved was saying.
How could he have been so easily swayed? Her beauty, her wit, was that all within her? Was there no conscience? No affection for him?
“Do you really mean that?” he said quietly. He had to be sure.
Emma did not look away. “Yes.”
It happened in an instant. Braedon’s heart hardened, a thick shell creeping over it to protect him, to shield him from this…this woman who had taken his trust, his innocence, and thought nothing of him whatever.
“Well,” he said, his voice cold. “Maybe you should leave.”
“Yes, I am leaving,” said Emma briskly. “Leaving the country. I am going to the Continent.”
She had already stepped to the front door before Braedon could halt her in her tracks, and even then, she slipped through his fingers.
“What did you––?”
His front door was slammed in his face, leaving him alone.
How could his life fall apart in just a few minutes?
Chapter Fifteen
Never before had Emma sat at the back of a church and hated herself so much.
And that was saying something. Selling one’s body, even when to the same man repeatedly in the form of a relationship, did not lead to a positive relationship with God.
Emma had rarely ventured into a church since Marnmouth had brought her to London. It was a scandal, and many had whispered about it, and yet there were none who could force her––and few priests or vicars who would speak to her.
Emma tried to concentrate on the happy couple up front, but their words were quickly drowned out in her heart by those shot at her by Fitz…
“Maybe you should leave.”
It was not difficult to see why he had lashed out, the pain written across his face. And why had he felt so angered, so hurt?
“If I married you, it would only be for your money. Nothing else.”
Tears were threatening to fall now, and Emma sniffed at the most inopportune moment. The wedding service had quieted, and the congregation turned to stare.
Blast it, of course, that was how it was going to go, Emma thought bitterly. Here she was, at the back, hoping not to be noticed––and now the entire congregation was going to think she was weeping because it was Marnmouth’s wedding.
Emma glared, and they uncomfortably turned away. Marnmouth and his bride, Miss Worsley as was, had hardly noticed the interruption. They were staring into each other’s eyes in rapturous wonder. It was almost as though their wedding guests were not even there.
And why should she care?
Emma brushed away tears and hid her next sniff under the organ springing to life. She had no wish for the tittle-tattle of London to focus on her; especially now she was so miserable.
Fitz. He was not here, at least––not as far as she could tell. When had she fallen in love with him? Emma rose and opened her mouth soundlessly as the rest of the congregation sang a hymn. She could not sing, not now. Not while her mind desperately tried to ascertain when Fitz had become so important.
The minute he had proposed marriage. She had not expected such a wild declaration, hoping only for the basic understanding that he would protect her, clothe her, and feed her.
“What do you mean? I am asking––mistress? Emma, I am asking you to be my wife.”
She had known in that moment she could never marry him. Despite the rush of emotions that had almost overwhelmed her, she knew she would not agree to be his wife.
She was not that cruel.
The hymn was over. Almost everyone else had been seated, and Emma quickly took her own. She needed to pay more attention to this damn wedding. She had only come to prove to herself that Marnmouth had well and truly been removed from her heart forever, but what succor could that possibly bring her now, in the full knowledge it was now Fitz who resided there, giving her just as much pain?
Fitz had wanted her, but he did not understand what sacrifice he would be making if he took her as his bride.
And he would care, eventually. Emma’s fingers twisted in her lap as she considered their potential future. He would have hated the stares, the gossip, the pointed lack of invitations to the best parties. And then not the best parties. Society would have forsaken them, and all they would have was each other.
Not even children.
Someone cleared their throat noisily. Emma sighed and looked up. She knew that noise. Someone wished to gain her attention.
Her gaze saw Lady Romeril, Mrs. Chesworth, Mrs. Marnion, and Mrs. Coulson all staring. It was a rather imposing view, four of the matriarchs of society all glaring.
Emma knew what to do, however. She smiled and inclined her head to them.
Frowns appeared on at least two of their faces, and Lady Romeril sniffed audibly before turning to the front of the church. Eventually, the other three followed suit.
Marnmouth’s wedding. She had been a fool to come, even though she had received an invitation. Her little conversation with Miss Worsley notwithstanding, she was not really connected to either the bride or the groom.
Not really. Not anymore.
But Miss Worsley’s note had indicated that she felt in debt to Emma as the orchestrator of their marriage––a phrase that had made Emma’s eyebrows rise. It had been strange wording, and Emma had been pleased, just for half a second, to think that she had had some success in the marriage market after all
.
If only she could do the same for herself.
No, repairing her relationship with Fitz was simply not possible. If she was honest, it hurt more to be here, at this big society wedding, because…because…
There was no one else to hear it if she only thought the words in her head.
Because she had been tempted. Tempted by Fitz’s offer. And if she had said yes, if she had bowed to the temptation soaring through her heart, then she would have been planning her own wedding. Her own happily ever after.
“All we can do is choose the happiness that stands before us, right now, in this moment!”
As the church started to empty, Emma saw to her surprise that Fitz had not been there. She had assumed she had merely missed him, but no. He had not attended his friend’s wedding.
Perhaps he, too, had dreaded the idea of sitting in a church and watching a happy couple get married––but she had faced it. She had known she was stronger than him. That was why she had made the sensible decision, that they could not be together.
It was a relief to know she would not have to face him today. Avoiding him over the last week had been easy. She had merely stayed in her rooms, save for buying a little food from the stalls around her building, and that had been it.
“Are you not attending the wedding reception, my child?”
Emma jumped. Lost in her thoughts, she had not noticed the church was now empty, save for herself and…
The vicar smiled. “I am sure your friends will be missing you, wondering where you have got to.”
Emma smiled weakly. He had no idea who she was, or he would not be speaking to her so kindly. The last time she had spoken to a man of the church, the Bishop had said––
“Miss Tilbury,” said the vicar kindly. “Do you not wish to celebrate the wedding of your friends?”
Emma stared. “You…you know who I am?”
“Indeed I do, and you think you shouldn’t receive kind treatment from me, but you shall have it,” said the man in a quiet voice. “Not every man of the church is determined to punish those around him. Go. Be happy.”
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 14
