Emma and the Earl

She walked away, wishing she could have seen a picture of the earl of Palliser. He hadn’t answered her letter before she left and she was getting nervous. She hoped he was a kindly old man who would be glad to let her tour the gardens of his estate, but as time wore on she pictured him more and more as a pointy, mean, middle-aged dandy, who had tossed her letter in the trash as soon as he’d gotten it, cursing her American brashness for even asking.

Maybe he’d even gotten on John’s case about it, since she had mentioned his book in her letter. Perhaps that was why John was so vague every time she asked him anything about the earl or Sheldale House in her letters. She hoped not. It hadn’t occurred to her that if the earl didn’t like personal contact, he might blame John for it.

No, that was borrowing trouble. John would have said something if the earl had given him a hard time. He didn’t hold things back from her. She smiled at the thought of finally meeting him, then immediately felt a twinge of nerves. The unwelcome thought that he might be disappointed when he saw her flew to mind. There was no telling how he pictured her in his mind, but she worried that he’d expect some tall, thin, blond California-type beauty. If so, he was in for a surprise.

Emma was plain. She had ordinary facial features, nondescript brown eyes, a plain old straight nose, an ordinary smile. At five feet eight inches, she was tall but not willowy or especially thin, or any of the things that made being tall a desirable trait for a woman.

Usually she went about her life and her work without thinking much about her appearance. Normally it didn’t matter. And it shouldn’t matter now, she realized. She and John were already great friends, it wasn’t as though either one of them expected it to lead to anything more.

Attraction wasn’t an issue.

She wondered, ruefully, if it was the habit of all women or just those who were particularly insecure about their looks to feel like it always was an issue. There hadn’t been a job interview, a party, or a blind date where Emma hadn’t felt the same self-consciousness.

This was what was good about her relationship with John. They liked each other for who they truly were, not for their looks, their jobs, their finances, or anything else that could be summarized in a demographic label.

It was the most…what was the word? Honest came to mind. It was the most honest relationship she’d ever had.

The two-day symposium on holistic medicine in the twenty-first century seemed to Emma to last two years, partly because of her jet lag and partly because of her eagerness to get it over with and meet John. After the first day, she’d been disappointed to return to the hotel and find no message from him. She couldn’t call him because she didn’t have the number, despite the fact that she had again tried the information operator and the phone book. She hadn’t heard from him since sending the card about her visit, so she wasn’t even positive he knew she was in London.

During the second day of the symposium, she could barely follow the debate about the medical use of marijuana because she was trying to decide what to do if there was still no message from John when she got back. She had his address. If worse came to worst, she could always just show up and knock on his door, but she really didn’t want to do that. Emma was not a fan of surprises, either giving them or receiving them.

When the group finally let out on the second day, she was so eager to get back to the hotel that she took a cab rather than saving the money and figuring out the bus schedule. The desk clerk called to her as soon as she walked in the door.

“Message for you, miss,” he said, with a knowing smile. Emma had asked him about messages at least twice a day since she’d arrived. He looked at her over the wire rims of his glasses, and handed her a folded yellow slip of paper.

She could barely breathe as she opened it. “John Turnhill rang,” it said, “at 4:10 p.m. Would like to take you to dinner. Can you make it tonight?” He had also left a phone number. At last!

She turned to ask the clerk if she could use the phone, but before she could speak, he nudged it toward her. “Dial direct,” he said, then deliberately turned to busy himself with the mail slots in order to give Emma some privacy.

With a shaking hand she dialed the number on the paper. When he answered, she went weak at the sound of his voice. She tried to speak, but all that came out was an embarrassing squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “John? This is Emma,” she said.

“Emma.” Was it her imagination or was there tension in his voice? “I’m so glad to hear from you.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. She must have imagined the tension. She swallowed. “I got your message. Dinner tonight sounds great. What time?”

“How about if I pick you up at half past seven?”

She looked at her watch. Half past. That meant 7:30, which meant she’d have two hours to get ready. “Perfect,” she said. Her entire body was tingling with anticipation. “Do you know how to get here?”

“Yes, I can manage.”

She didn’t want to let him hang up. She’d waited so long for this that she was half afraid it was a dream that would pop like a bubble if she wasn’t very careful.

“So I’ll see you then,” he said, again sounding a little stiff.

“Great,” she said quickly. Don’t sound over-eager, she told herself. “Until then.”

When she hung up the phone she noticed that her hand was shaking like a dry leaf in the wind. Breathe, Emma. You’ve got two hours to calm down.

“Boyfriend?” the desk clerk asked, taking the phone back.

“Nope. Just an old friend.” She felt her face grow warm. “A pen pal, actually. We’ve never met before.”

“Ah.” He nodded, and gave her a commiserative smile. “You look nervous.”

“I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.” The words came out in a rush.

“You needn’t be, a lovely girl like yourself.” He gave a quick smile and said very seriously, “Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.”

Chapter Two

Emma went back to her room, buoyed by the desk clerk’s compliment. Yes, perhaps he was just being nice. It was his job, after all. But he had such an honest face that she allowed herself to believe him. A lovely girl like yourself. Your friend will be very happy when he sees you, I’m certain.

She returned her thoughts to work and sat down on the bed to take her notebook out of her bag. As she leafed through her notes from the day, she realized that she’d been so distracted that she hadn’t even written complete sentences. She’d been more consumed with anticipation than she’d realized. Now she’d have to rewrite all the notes before she forgot what they meant. With a sigh, she looked at her watch and hoped she’d have at least a little time after she’d finished to get ready for dinner.

The task took a little more than an hour, and when she was finished her hand was aching, but her purpose in coming had been reinforced. Part of her had been so eager to meet John that she’d let the goal of going to the earl of Palliser’s estate slip to the back burner. Now she remembered just how important it was.

When she’d first seen John’s photo of the earl’s Sheldale House garden on Guernsey, she’d been so surprised she nearly spilled her hot coffee in her lap. For nearly three years she and her boss had been researching natural alternative painkillers for arthritis and had narrowed it down to Schilus mucre, or St. Paul’s Heart, a very rare plant related to Barren Wort, which was itself a rare English plant.

Yet there, plain as the grass in John’s picture, was what looked like a large patch of St. Paul’s Heart. They’d examined the photo closely and determined that it looked very similar. Then funding for the research had run low and they’d been forced to turn their priorities elsewhere. Until a month ago, that was, when a new benefactor had donated nearly one million dollars to them for medical research. Emma had volunteered to come to the symposium and stay on using her vacation time in hopes of researching the plants and conditions at Sheldale House.

It was a goal she shouldn’t lose sight of, no matter how excited she was about meeting John. In fact, she might even need John to help her with it. Much as she hated to do it, if she didn’t hear from the earl soon—like on her way out the door this evening—she was going to have to ask John if he could pull any strings to get her permission to visit Sheldale House. Heaven knew she didn’t want to do it. After their initial correspondence, she’d tried to keep business out of their relationship, but if she explained to him how important it was, maybe he would want to help. That thought boosted her optimism considerably.

She set her notes aside and went to the cupboard for a towel so she could get showered and ready for dinner. She bathed quickly and dried her hair. After trying three different “meeting John” outfits, she finally settled on a simple yellow sundress, cut in a classic forties’ style that created the illusion of a narrow waist thanks to a full skirt. It wasn’t one of her new “going to London” outfits, but it was an old favorite that she felt comfortable in.

Her hair, as usual, was proving to be a problem. It fell halfway down her back in a thick tangle of auburn curls. After trying several possibilities, she finally decided to let it hang in wild curls about her shoulders. Luckily all the latest fashion magazines were heralding that look as “pre-Raphaelite fabulous,” which she supposed was a good thing. She brushed some color on her cheeks and lips, the way the girl at the drugstore had taught her, and went downstairs to wait for John.

She went to the front step and sat in the balmy evening air, drinking in the sights, sounds and smells of London. The sky was deepening blue, with streaks of lipstick pink stretching across the horizon. Some of the birds in the leafy green trees were singing new songs, unfamiliar to Emma.

A small blue car pulled up outside the hotel. That, Emma realized as she looked at its tiny dimensions, must be what they call a Mini. There was a man in it, alone. Her heart tripped. It was almost certainly John. The time had finally come.

The man got out of the car and walked toward the hotel. He was tall, with a lean, muscular build. His dark hair, just a bit longish at the collar, gleamed in the amber evening sunlight, bringing Sir Lancelot to mind.

But nothing could have prepared her for the exquisite dignity of his face or, more specifically, her heart-pounding reaction to it. Even from a distance, she was struck by the masculine square jaw, and the sensual perfection of his curved mouth. His cheekbones were strong and noble-looking without being so high as to be “pretty.” As he drew closer, she could see that his straight dark brows framed pale, intelligent eyes. Eyes that made her feel, for one irrational moment, that she was home.

“Hello,” he said, nearing her.

“Hi,” she said, but it sounded like a question. Was it him? Was it really him?

He stopped before her and cocked his head slightly to the side. “Emma?”

She gave a slight nod—the best she could do, considering the fact that his looks had practically paralyzed her—and only then realized that she’d been holding her breath.

He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m John Turnhill.”

It was him. Had she ever even imagined he would be so handsome? That old familiar self-consciousness about her own looks resurfaced. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.

He held her gaze easily as he took her hand in his. “You are exactly as I imagined.”