Marrying Mischief

Though he turned to go, he faced her again when he stood in the doorway. “You have no cause to fear me, Emily. I would never do anything to cause you further pain.”

She remained silent, far from certain she believed him, and unwilling to lie about it. Though Nick’s intention would never be to inflict any deliberate hurt upon her, Emily knew he could do so without even trying, maybe without even knowing.

He searched her eyes for her answer and seemed to find it there. “I did care for you then, Emily. And whether you can accept the truth or not, I still do.”

There was little she could say to that. He might still desire her. But hunger was a common thing for a man to feel toward any female. Even if Nick did not recognize the difference, she now knew better than to confuse desire with true caring. At least he said nothing of loving her.

Without further words, he went out of the room and gently closed the door. She heard his measured footsteps on the stairs and felt as bereft as she always did when deprived of his company. That had not altered at all, unless she counted the fact that the deprivation cut even more deeply now.

With Nicholas residing continents away, it had been somehow easier to accept that he did not love her. How was she supposed to bear it when they were living under the same roof?

No matter how much she wished it, there seemed no way out of this conundrum. Though she wanted nothing more than to sneak back out the gardener’s gate with her brother and double her efforts to forget Nicholas Hollander, she knew that she and Joshua had no recourse but to remain here until the quarantine was over.

Emily straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Running is the coward’s way,” she muttered vehemently to herself, pounding one fist soundly into the opposite palm. “And you, Emily Loveyne, have never resorted to such behavior in your life. Where is your courage?”

She had overcome the snide remarks and polite censure of the whole village of Bournesea, as well as that of the old Lord Kendale, when she was hardly more than a girl out of short skirts. Never once had she doubted her eventual success in that endeavor.

Now she was a woman with the blinders of first love torn away and a much better understanding of people in general. Of men, in particular. Clearly, she could stand what she must and weather this storm, as well.

There was certain to be one, she realized. No one in the entire county would ever believe she had spent a whole fortnight in this manor with the man she once adored without surrendering to his charms.

It would likely take her more than seven years this time to convince them of her innocence.

Emily used the bellpull, after all. During the hours alone in the countess’s old chamber with nothing to read but a well-thumbed book of poetry, she grew desperately bored.

One could only dwell so long on the ramblings of Byron. Was this what Nicholas’s mother had endured day after day? Lying abed, pondering the rather pointless meanderings of a dissolute poet? Small wonder she always seemed so glad to greet the vicar and his tagalong.

Emily recalled the occasions she had come here with her father while the countess was alive. Lady Elizabeth’s dark beauty had always left Emily awestruck, as had the woman’s unguarded opinions expressed so openly to a man of God. Many of Emily’s own views of life were colored by that ready candor.

She had also noted that when her father led them in the requisite parting prayer for improvement of the lady’s health, the countess neither bowed her head nor closed her eyes. Once she had even winked and smiled at Emily who had been sneaking a look up at her.

Though they had rarely spoken to one another, the motherless Emily had imagined a bond between them.

“Well, here I am again, my lady,” Emily said aloud to the room where the countess had breathed her last. “Best lend me some of that wry humor of yours. I feel I might need it when this little visit with your esteemed son is over.”

Byron’s little book, lying forgotten on the edge of the mattress suddenly slid off and hit the floor with a thump. A chill ran up Emily’s spine. “Thank you, that is quite enough to set me laughing,” she muttered. “Keep your humor to yourself now.”

Lord, here she was imagining ghosts and talking to the dearly departed. If half a day in this place had her speaking to the walls, she could only imagine how she would be faring after two interminable weeks of it.

Unlike some women who said they could not touch a bite of food when in distress, Emily craved chocolate. At the moment she would have wrestled someone to the floor for a cup of the stuff. And cakes to go with it.

It had grown dark outside. For the third time in less than an hour, she gave the intricately braided cord a firm yank, imagining a bell jangling somewhere below. With all of the servants gone to London, she doubted there would be anyone there to hear it. She could not imagine any of the ship’s crew hanging about in the butler’s pantry.

Though Emily had been fairly well acquainted with the kitchen and service areas of the house at one time, she was not inclined to venture down the stairs and make herself at home there now.

Still fully dressed except for her boots, she curled up on the wide feather bed and drew the coverlet over her. If eventually, someone did answer her summons, she would request her sweets, a stack of books from his lordship’s library and a bucket of coal to fuel the small fireplace. It was mid-May, and the evening had brought a chill with it.

A loud knock woke her from a sound sleep. Emily jerked upright and brushed her tousled curls out of her eyes. “Yes? Who is it?”

The door opened. “Emily? I’m afraid the captain took a turn for the worse last evening and I quite forgot to send anyone with your dinner.” Nicholas balanced a silver tray on one arm as he approached.

Carefully, but hurriedly, he set it upon the mattress beside her hip and gestured to the room at large. “I also neglected to offer you the use of Mother’s things. Please avail yourself of the clothing, writing materials, and anything else you find that you can use.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“By the way, your brother is feeling quite the thing today.” He began to back toward the door.

“Wait,” she said, reaching out, almost upsetting the teapot. “Don’t go yet! Tell me more of Joshua, please?”

He stopped where he was. “He is fine, the doctor says. No fever at all last night or this morning. And his appetite seems quite normal.”

“I cannot tell you how that relieves my mind.” Emily sighed. “Could I trouble you for something to read today? And perhaps some coal?”

“Certainly, anything you wish.”

He smiled then and seemed to deliberately shake off whatever had caused his abruptness. “Look, I know this waiting is damned hard for you, Emily. What if I make a compromise and allow you to see Josh for a few moments? Just from the doorway to his room, you understand. Would that help?”

Emily burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

“No, no weeping, please,” he said softly, approaching the bed again. “Hear now, if you hush, I will let you visit him directly after supper.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.” His hand lightly caressed her hair and rested on the back of her neck. “Shall I take Josh a message from you this morning?”

She nodded vigorously and sniffed. “Tell—tell him I cannot wait to see him again. That I love him so. And that Father and I missed him dreadfully.”

Nicholas pushed the tray aside and edged one hip onto the bed, beside her. He pulled her close so that her bowed head rested against his chest while his long fingers brushed over her curls.

“I have a feeling all will be well,” he told her. “You know, even after that small setback last evening, Captain Roland feels much better this morning than he has at all since coming down with this? And George Tuckwell, the purser, is nearly as well recovered as Josh.”

“No one else has had complaints?” she asked, looking up at him.

He wiped the tears from her cheeks with one finger. “Not a soul. I have had each man report the state of his health to me three times daily. Other than the occasional gripe of being landlocked, not a one has suffered so much as a bellyache. I believe we have almost weathered this.”

She didn’t dare to hope, but she asked anyway. “Will you still insist upon our remaining enclosed here for the entire fortnight?”

“I must, Emily, for safety’s sake. Please understand.”

Oh, how she wished they could remain as they were. How marvelous to feel his strong arms around her, his hands cradling her back, her shoulders, threading through her hair. She inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of him, wanting more…

Carefully, he disengaged himself from her and stood again, replacing the tray so that she could reach it. “Breakfast now, and you may go below. The library is yours for the day. I shall work elsewhere.”

Emily felt dizzy, light as air, as if a huge lead weight had been removed from her shoulders. Surely he did care, at least a little. “Is there anything I may do to help out…my lord?”

He cocked a brow and pursed his lips. “For one thing, you might cease the my lord foolishness and call me Nick as you always have done.”

She smiled and busied herself pouring her chocolate. “I should have used your honorary address all these years, but no one saw fit to correct me. Except your father. He was appalled that I should speak of you at all.”