20

Emmie could not say why precisely, but she felt a lingering uneasiness on returning to her bedchamber. Jeremy accompanied her as far as the door, kissed her hand, and then retreated to his own rooms. This surprised her a little. For some reason she had thought he might want to join her.

Lottie appeared to let her know her bath was ready and to help her undress for it. After that was done, Emmie drew on her robe and settled at her dressing table as Lottie dried her hair with a cloth and untangled it with a comb. As she brushed it out, her maid chattered away excitedly about the trousseau that had arrived from the Bath modiste.

“Ever so lovely everything is, milady. Three day dresses of such pretty colors and two evening gowns that are as fine as any I’ve seen. There’s a quantity of undergarments as well, milady, all so pretty and delicate. I’ve pressed and put everything away in your dressing room.”

Emmie roused herself from her thoughts. “Thank you, Lottie, that was most thoughtful of you. Any combing jackets?”

“No, milady,” her maid said regretfully. “But there was a note that said a second parcel would arrive within the month, so there’s still a chance.”

“What about nightgowns?” Emmie asked, thinking of Jeremy.

“Oh yes, milady, and ever so pretty they are, trimmed with ribbon and lace and the most beautiful embroidery. I’ve set one on the bed for you.”

Emmie glanced over at the bed and saw a long white nightgown with capped sleeves and a low square neckline decorated in pink ribbon. It was certainly a good deal more revealing than her old one.

“There’s a new dressing gown, too, in a lovely pink brocade,” Lottie added, nodding to a peg on the doorway, “so you need not worry you will catch your death of cold.”

Emmie cleared her throat. “That’s a relief.”

“Shall I plait your hair into a braid for bed, milady?” Lottie asked.

Emmie considered this for a moment, her eyes straying to the connecting door. “No, thank you,” she decided. “I’ll leave it loose tonight.” She had already washed and brushed her teeth, so after removing her old dressing gown and the last of her underwear, she donned her new nightgown and returned Lottie’s good night as the maid departed with a neat curtsey.

Once alone, Emmie glanced at herself in the dressing table mirror. Maybe it was the candlelight flattering her, but she fancied the new nightgown was rather becoming. It was more tailored to her figure than the old one, which had been rather shapeless as well as buttoned up to her throat.

Fetching her new dressing gown off its peg, she admired the gold stitched flowers on the silky pink fabric before putting it on and walking to the door which led to Jeremy’s room. Was she really going to do this? She cast her mind back to their previous conversation on the subject.

I cannot imagine I would bar your way if you did venture my side of the door. That was what he had said. In truth, it had not exactly been an invitation. Then again, he had seemed rather surprised when she had even suggested the possibility of her venturing into his domain.

For the first time, it occurred to her that perhaps Jeremy was not much of an authority when it came to marital relations. After all, by his own admission, his first marriage had been rather a disaster and his own parents had been divorced before he was two. How would he know much about how they worked?

According to Teddy’s artless disclosures, his father had kept his side of the door permanently locked when married to Lady Amanda. Perhaps it was locked now, she thought, biting her thumbnail. There was only one way to find out. Extending her hand, she turned the handle. The door opened, and taking a deep breath, Emmie walked through.

Her first impression of the room was a lot of dark wood and green walls. Then she spotted him standing next to a large bed. Jeremy turned to look at her in surprise, frozen in the act of tying the belt to his black and gold dressing gown.

“Oh!” Emmie said, for she had been expecting him to be abed. “Are you going for a bath?”

“No, I’ve just had one actually,” he said, and she noticed his hair did look slightly damp.

“So, did I,” she confided rather awkwardly. After all the attics had been dusty. “Is your valet—?”

“Simons has retired for the evening. “That’s a very fetching dressing robe.”

“It’s new,” she said, turning in a circle for him. “From Madame de Flores.”

“It’s worth every penny,” he said admiringly. “Very pretty. Are you going to come in? Or just hover there by the door.” He walked over to the bed and sat on it, reclining against the pillows.

Emmie ventured further into the room, glancing about her with interest. “I like your room,” she said, noticing several bronze horses scattered around the room on small pedestal tables. Another voluptuous Venus hung on the wall opposite his bed. This one was partially swathed in red velvet, though still flaunting her naked upper body, gazing at herself complacently in a mirror held up by cupids. Yes, this was definitely Jeremy’s room.

“I hope there’s a new nightgown under that robe, Ballentine,” he commented.

“There is.”

“Care to show it to me?”

“Not yet,” she said, lowering herself onto a plush velvet seat.

He frowned. “Why are you sitting over there?”

“Well, I don’t like to encroach.”

His confused expression cleared. “Ah, so that’s it. You’ve come for Stockton’s letters,” he said, rolling onto his side and reaching for one of the drawers. “Here.” He tossed them onto the bed at his feet. “I should have given you them sooner, but it slipped my mind. I suppose they hold more sentimental value for you than your father’s letters did.” His tone was faintly barbed, though his expression remained aloof.

Emmie stared stupidly at the pile of letters tied up with string. She had forgotten all about her letters to Humphrey. Now that she came to think of it, she had asked about them earlier that day, and he had said something about her having to “beard him in his den.”

That must be what he thought she was doing now. How humiliating . When she had come looking for him for an altogether different reason. You stupid fool, Emmeline , she told herself. How can you still be chasing after him, eager for his attention, after all these years? Have you learned nothing ?

“Of course,” she said slowly, “the letters.” She stood up moved to the bed to retrieve them. “Thank you.” She glanced about and made for the open fireplace, dropping the packet of letters into the flames before turning around. “Well, good night,” she said awkwardly and started back toward the door.

“Emmeline—” he called after her, but she pretended not to hear him, hurrying her steps, slipping back through the door, and turning the key in the lock. She felt a sudden and dizzying anger sweep over her. She was practically shaking with it. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against the door a moment to steady herself.

How dare he? The way he had just flung them at her like that. That bastard. That inconsiderate, unfeeling swine. Without giving herself further time to reflect or calm down, she walked over to her bed and retrieved the rosewood box she had concealed underneath it.

Straightening up, she walked out into the corridor and around the corner until she reached the door to Jeremy’s bedroom. She was damned if she would ever use that connecting door again. It could remain locked forever as far as she was concerned.

Knocking on the door loudly three times, she threw it open and marched inside. Jeremy was off the bed now, stood in the center of the room. He had a stunned, slightly panicked expression on his face. “Why are you—?”

She flung the heavy rosewood box on the bed, where it bounced and landed upside down.

He transferred his gaze from her to the box, then back again.

“Open it,” she said abruptly.

“What is it?”

“Open it,” she repeated woodenly.

After looking at her rather searchingly, he walked over to the bed and sat down on it, drawing the box toward him, setting it right-side up, and locating the latch.

“Take a look,” she said bitterly. “And you shall see whether I am sentimental or not.”

“Emmeline,” he said gently. “Won’t you sit down beside me.”

“No! I don’t want to!” she said in a choked voice. When he made as though to set the box aside, she backed away from the bed and lowered herself into the same chair she had sat upon earlier.

Jeremy watched her warily, and only once she was settled did he return to the box, unfastening it and lifting the lid. He gazed down at the contents a moment blankly before drawing out a pair of monogrammed gloves. “Your father’s?” he asked in some confusion, after inspecting the initials. “I thought you said you did not keep anything of his.”

“No, I did not say that,” she replied tightly. “I said I sold anything of value, and that I did not keep any of his letters. For your information, my lord,” she began in a low, shaking voice, “my father only ever wrote to me when he wished to upbraid me. It is hardly likely that I should wish to preserve such communications. My father was a very driven man, some might even say ruthless. He was certainly very business-oriented. Ballentine’s Trading Company was his true focus in life, not family and certainly not me.”

Jeremy swallowed and set the gloves carefully aside before reaching back inside the box. He drew out an empty scent bottle with a few congealed drops remaining in the bottom. “And whose was this?” he asked quietly. “Your mother’s?”

She jerked her head in affirmation. “Yes, I do not remember her but as a child I drew some comfort from knowing what she liked to smell like.”

Next, he drew a pair of long white evening gloves from the box. “And were these your mother’s too?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No. Mine,” she said briefly.

He frowned slightly but returned to the box and drew out next an ivory silk fan trimmed in silver. “And this?”

Averting her face, she crossed her arms. “Mine also,” she said, swallowing.

With growing bewilderment, he drew forth another fan, this one of white satin with broken sticks. “Will you explain?” he asked quietly. “Emmeline?”

“Explain?” she asked in a wobbly voice. “Well, might you ask. It’s an odd collection, is it not? Very well.” She stood up from her chair and approached the bed, snatching up the evening gloves and dangling them before his nose. “These gloves I wore to the Foxtons’,” she said matter-of-factly. “You won’t remember, but after we danced there, you escorted me off the dance floor and did not relinquish my hand.

“Instead, you walked me over to the potted plants and stayed beside me for oh, I don’t know, probably five minutes of your idle life, whiling away the time by talking a lot of spite about the company at large. I don’t remember what you said, in truth I could barely hear you.

“You see, the whole time, my heart was beating so loudly it drowned out your words and all I could focus on was the fact we still had our fingers interlaced and your palm pressing against mine.” She threw down the gloves on the bed. “Stupid, isn’t it? I could not bear to use them again and instead kept them as though they had once touched a holy relic.”

Instead of looking for his reaction, she snatched up the silver ivory fan. “This, you took from my hand at the Wavertons’ picnic party and used it to fan my hot face as you sat beside me and amused yourself for half an hour by paying court to me. I was so happy that I could not eat a thing, even though they had exotic fruits there that I had been looking forward to sampling.”

She paused, caught up in the moment. “They were serving peaches in fancy napkins, I remember,” she said in a faraway voice, “but they called them Persian apples.” She gave herself a quick shake. “Silly how you remember such details.”

Next was the broken fan. Still avoiding his eye, she picked it up between finger and thumb, holding it in the air and contemplating it in a detached sort of manner. “This is the fan I was holding that night at the foot of Lord Hawford’s staircase, when your announcement was made,” she said in a brittle voice. “It was very expensive, and I did not even notice that I had snapped all the sticks until I was sat in the carriage on the way home. As you can see, it was broken quite beyond repair.”

The silence between them stretched out, until Emmie released the fan and it fell in a twirling sort of motion, like an injured bird falling from the sky. Jeremy reached out and caught it before it hit the ground. His swift movement broke her trance, and she stepped back, almost startled by it.

Jeremy straightened up very slowly and added the fan to his pile.

“Pray continue,” she said politely, looking back expectantly at the box.

“Emmeline—” he started hoarsely but she made a sharp gesture with her hand.

“There’s not much left now. It won’t take long.”

Almost reluctantly, he drew out the first of several dance cards. She waited until she saw it, the dawning realization in his eyes. She could not bear to watch as he opened each one in turn. It would not take him long to find his signature in every one. Barely anyone else had ever taken the trouble to dance with her after all.

Before she knew it, he was off the bed, and was trying to take her in his arms. “Ballentine,” he murmured huskily. She did not make it easy for him, struggling and trying to push him away. She shoved a hand against his chest, and he caught it there.

“ Don’t ,” he said brokenly, “Don’t push me away, Emmie-mine, I can’t bear it.”

Emmie stopped trying to free herself. Instead, she looked at her hand where it lay against his chest, resisting, yet touching his bare skin at the same time. His chest heaved beneath her fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m so fucking sorry. You’re far too good for me. You always were. I hope you know that.”

She would not speak, could not. The anger, both toward him and worse, toward herself , pressed down too heavily on her heart. She wanted to cry but not soft, healing tears. No, the tears she wanted to cry were angry, furious sobs of resentment and bitterness.

His expression seemed to show he understood at least some measure of her feeling, for he dragged her hand until it rested over his heart. “I don’t have a rosewood box, Emmeline, but I kept you here always.” His words were low and urgent.

His throat seemed to close over the words, and for a moment he struggled to speak. “I know, God knows I know that I”—he paused, choosing his words carefully—“that I was too destructive in the past.” She could not help but stiffen slightly even at this vague allusion to it.

He continued in a ragged voice, “I worry that any vestiges we have left of that time are damaged and I cannot repair them, try as I might. I know you said we should build something new and forget the past, but I don’t want to forget it!” His words were passionate now. “Because—”

“Stop,” she begged raggedly, clapping her hands over her ears and screwing her eyes shut. He ceased talking at once. Slowly, Emmie lowered her hands, her breathing shallow and uneven. She felt herself sway slightly on her feet.

Pointing to the wooden box with a trembling finger, she asked in a low, shaky voice, “Does that not prove to you that I am not made of stone? Why must you poke and pry at the wound? It had practically healed until you came back into my life! I cannot—!”

“I’m sorry, Emmeline,” he said quickly as her voice broke and she closed her eyes, a single tear running down her cheek. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. You’re right. I was wrong. I won’t—” He swallowed convulsively. “I won’t ever bring it up again. I’ll never, never bring it up again, my darling, I promise.”

His hands hovered awkwardly at her elbows. “Can I—? Let me—?” When she did not move, just stood there like a wooden stock, he folded her carefully into his arms and Emmie let him comfort her, rocking her slightly. “God, I’m sorry, so sorry,” he said against her hair, gently kissing her brow. “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart. For everything. For…just everything .”

When she remained still, he said quietly, “Will you stay? Will you lie in my bed with me? Just to sleep, I swear. I would like to try it, just once.”

“Try it?” Emmie echoed. She had no idea what he was talking about right now.

“Having you in my bed with me, I mean. Will you?” She hesitated, knowing only too well that there would be sobbing before she slept. Ugly, jagged sobbing and ladies did not show such overset emotion. He released her at once, lifting her hand to his lips. “No? Then let me escort you back to your room, then, sweetheart. Just let me tuck you in.”

“I’ll stay,” she said dully, though she was not really sure why.

He peered into her face. “You’re sure?” he asked softly.

Emmie nodded and gave him a tired smile. “You likely won’t thank me for it though,” she predicted wanly.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, leading her over to the bed, and drawing back the covers for her.

“Because I’m going to cry myself to sleep,” she said frankly. “Do you still want me to stay?”

“Yes,” he said at once and she climbed into his bed. He walked around to the other side, extinguishing the candles and joining her under the covers, huddling against her back and passing an arm about her to hold her close.

Under the covers, in the forgiving darkness, Emmie pressed her face into the pillow and wept as though her heart would surely break. She wept for that stupid girl who had looked so eagerly for him with so much hope in her heart. That idiot girl who had been so excited to attend all those pretentious parties.

The girl who had hurried to his side as soon as he so much as beckoned. The girl who had worn her heart on her sleeve while everyone else laughed at her. The girl she had once been. She soaked his pillow with tears and racked her body with shattering sobs that left her feeling weak and calm at last.

The whole time, Jeremy Vance held her tightly to him. How odd, she thought, being comforted by the person who had reopened her wounds. Wounds he had inflicted in the first place.