Chapter 6

6

W hen Emily awoke with a racing heart, covered in a sheen of perspiration, the world was cloaked in darkness.

She sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes darting around wildly, struggling to turn all the shadowy shapes into something familiar. Yet there was nothing reassuring. Nothing at all but an ominous rattle as the wind shook the windowpanes.

I’m not in my own bedchamber . The truth came rushing back, pelting her like a blast of icy air. Her vision adjusted to the dimness enough to distinguish bed curtains, a counterpane, pillows. But none of them were hers. This wasn’t Beaumont Manor , where her sister, Anna , resided in the bedchamber next door, always willing to keep Emily company when she awoke in one of her moods .

She was at Rosemead House . Alone .

She pressed a hand to her chest, attempting a few deep breaths. However , the air wouldn’t stop rushing in and out of her lungs in short bursts. Likewise , her torso was stiff, and as much as she tried forcing herself to relax, it refused to drop back to the mattress.

She pushed aside the bed curtains, hopping to the floor and feeling about with her feet until she located her borrowed slippers. Sleep would never reclaim her in this state, so why torture herself by attempting it?

Mrs . Ruck had found a dressing gown for her, and she slid it onto her shoulders, hugging the fabric tight to her body as she hurried toward the door. This guest bedchamber, like the rest of Rosemead , was well-furnished and pleasingly decorated, although she suddenly couldn’t stay in it a moment longer.

While the fire in her room had died down to weak embers, casting a chill about the space, it was nothing compared to the frostiness that hit her when she entered the corridor. But it didn’t matter. She kept going farther into the icy darkness, feeling her way along as she approached the staircase.

Sometimes , when she couldn’t sleep at Beaumont , she and Anna would go down to the library, and Anna would read aloud in the most outlandish voice she could manage until Emily’s anxieties became laughter. Perhaps she would obtain similar comfort by finding Rosemead’s library and sitting for a spell with a book. Or maybe she simply needed to walk until her limbs became cold and tired enough that the demand to rest them overtook her racing thoughts.

She made it down the stairs and through the short corridor that ran to the great hall, which contained doors leading to other parts of the house—the library included, presumably. Not surprisingly, the space held no additional warmth, for the flames in the hearth had diminished to embers here, too.

However , this vast room did have light. Candlelight . For sitting at one of the long tables the footmen had dragged to the center of the room was Nate , his hand finagling a branch from the pile of greenery set out before him.

Her muscles seized, her feet halting abruptly. Yes , it was his house, but he wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the middle of the night, still fully alert and wearing the same trousers and waistcoat he had during the day. Once they’d finished meting out the oranges and putting the final touches on the gift baskets, he’d arranged for Mrs . Ruck to show her to her chamber and bring her a tray of simple fare, suggesting that he, too, would retire early so they could awaken and be underway at first light.

Well , his plans had obviously changed—for aside from the fact that he’d removed his coat and loosened his cravat, it didn’t look like he’d retired at all. Which left her with a pressing dilemma: what was she to do now? Perhaps she could tiptoe backward with the utmost secrecy, as if she’d never been here?—

Except his eyes fell upon her without missing a beat, and suddenly, it was too late.

“ Lady Emily .” He rose from his seat, tossing the branch—holly, it looked like—back to the table and casting it a wry look. “ It’s officially Christmas Eve ,” he offered by way of explanation, his hand sweeping over the array of branches.

Yes , Christmas Eve . The day when decorations could be hung without the threat of bad luck. Why , then, did she keep descending farther into disaster?

“ Forgive me.” She startled backward a step, away from all the festive greenery. Away from her mistake. From him . “ I shouldn’t have been wandering, I? —”

“ Rosemead isn’t haunted to the best of my knowledge,” he cut in, giving his chin an inquisitive tilt to the side, “but you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“ I haven’t, I …” Blast , why did her voice sound so pitiably shaky? And why did her knees keep trembling beneath her dressing gown?

“ What’s happened?” He pushed away from the table and made it to her side in a matter of seconds, his brows drawing together in concern. He really was devastatingly handsome—a fact her brain insisted on reiterating, even as apprehension clutched her within its grasp.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing her heart to stop its rapid thudding. How was she to answer that question without sounding ridiculous? I had a nightmare . Just like a child .

“ Never mind.” His words broke through the pounding in her ears, and his hand fell upon her sleeve, giving it a gentle tug. “ Come with me.”

His fingertips were sparks, searing her to the bone. A sensation that was … exhilarating.

A sensation that required prompt dousing. But disquiet, apparently, bred compliance, for before she could think better of it and shake him off, she was striding through the great hall on her shaky legs, allowing him to lead her. He released her for only a moment to retrieve his candelabrum before continuing the trek, taking her through one of the paneled oak doors.

A door that opened to a familiar short corridor, and then, they were back in the orangery, greeted by its aromatic summertime warmth.

She went so far as to let him guide her to a bench beside the rosebushes, where she sank to the wrought iron seat, taking in large mouthfuls of the fragrant air. However , as the heat began to soothe her trembling limbs, her gaze shot upward, tracking him as he turned away to set down the light and pulled at something tucked within his coat. “ Why are we here at this time of night?”

“ Because you like it here,” he answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and before she could utter another word, he came back to her, extending a liquor bottle that contained an unknown dark liquid. “ Drink this.”

She eyed the green-black glass—how had he acquired it without her notice?—and felt her mouth become pinched. Surely , he wasn’t serious.

“ Go on.” He nudged it toward her palm, making the liquid splash within the bottle. “ I won’t tell a soul.”

Drat him, anyway. She accepted the offering, pulling out the stopper and tipping the bottle to her lips before common sense had a chance to reappear. At once, her throat was hit with the potent burn of brandy, a sensation that seeped into her chest and pooled between her ribs. On the limited occasions when she’d sampled her father’s brandy, she hadn’t thought she liked it. However , she now found something comforting in the fiery liquid, and she took another quick drink before pushing the bottle back at him.

He must be satisfied with her efforts, for he accepted it into his grasp and lowered himself to the opposite side of the bench. “ Now ,” he said, his tone low. Calming . His eyes another source of piercing heat as he assessed her. “ Will you tell me what happened?”

She swallowed, her throat still afire. Her head somehow more restful but also more hazed than before. “ I couldn’t sleep.” That was all the answer she needed to give. She could leave it at that, excuse herself, and pace the floor of the guest bedchamber until light streaked through the windows and the snow faded away. However , brandy—or perhaps the very air of this dreamlike orangery—made her tongue limber enough that more words slipped out. “ I usually can’t in unfamiliar places.” Sometimes , not in familiar places, either . “ Not since …”

Oh , she’d said too much. Had made herself vulnerable where vulnerability had no place. Yet he continued to look at her, his body shifting forward just the slightest amount. His expression … thoughtful. Kind . “ Not since what, love?”

The endearment shot to her heart, equal parts wonderful and devastating. It meant nothing, of course. Words to placate a frail, quivering child . Regardless , the truth rose in her throat, no longer content to stay inside and gnaw a hole but insisting it break free.

She drew in a long breath. “ Not since the voyage I took as a girl. The one where I became ill, and my mother …”

She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence but also not needing to. All the ton— Nate included, certainly—knew of her mother’s affair. Of how Emily had been dragged along as her mother had tried to run away to India with her lover, only for fever to hit each one of them during the voyage and claim her mother’s life.

What they didn’t know was the story of the twelve-year-old girl who’d lain by herself in bed at night as the ship back to England swayed over the waves, unsure of what ached more: her body or her heart. The girl whose father had tried to offer comfort, but grief and confusion had made her push him away, until all she had left was her broken self and the darkness.

Yet why did she think it wise to trouble Nate —to trust him—with all that? She gave her head an abrupt shake, as if she could rid herself of both the memories and her own imprudence. “ It’s beyond absurd. It all happened so long ago. There’s no reason that dreams of those things should still affect me now.”

“ It’s not absurd.” He shook his head just as vehemently, and his hand came out, about to fall upon hers, before he seemed to think better of it and placed it in his lap. “ Do the dreams plague you often?”

“ Not so often.” She released a soft sigh, allowing her rigid torso to rest against the back of the bench. “ They seem to grow worse when I’m already anxious or unsettled.” Such as when I find myself trapped in a house with the man I wished never to see again .

The thought rose from force of habit. Yet in this moment, it didn’t seem true. Being sequestered in the orangery with Nate felt … safe .

“ Try not to worry.” He straightened a little, flashing a half-smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “ The snowstorm is bound to exhaust itself soon, and I’ll have you back at Beaumont —and with your almost betrothed—by morning.”

“ It’s not …” It’s not that . She’d already snapped those words at her sister today when Anna teased her about Lord Coleville . Why did Nate , too, have to make that assumption?

More pertinently, perhaps: why couldn’t the assumption be true? Why couldn’t all her troubles be solved by a reunion in Lord Coleville’s arms? By a Christmastime proposal? By a future where everything was sensible and planned?

A shadow passed over Nate’s face, along with a small tic in his jaw. He lifted the brandy bottle to his lips, taking a long swig before setting it back on the ground. “ Is it a love match?”

And just like that, the warmth in her belly dissipated; her crumbling defenses shot right back up. “ You’re very forward, Mr . Pembrook . I’m not sure why that’s pertinent to you.”

“ Ah .” Traces of brandy shone upon his lips. A knowing glint flickered in his pupils. “ So , no .”

“ How dare …” Her voice came out too loud, too defensive, and she pressed her mouth closed before her speech could escalate into a full-blown diatribe. Instead , she seethed in silence, her fingernails digging into the folds of her borrowed dressing gown. He had no right to make that sort of presumption. No right to voice it so casually.

Except … he wasn’t wrong. He discerned too much, could see all the way through to her heart. How could she condemn him for speaking the truth?

Even if the truth hurt.

She leaned over, taking another swallow of brandy before sitting back up to hold his gaze. “ It’s not as simple as that,” she said, gratified by the composure in her tone. “ After one has had five Seasons , and turned down twice as many proposals for the very reason that they do not involve love, one begins to consider the matter differently.”

One of Nate’s golden brows arched in that familiar, aggravating way. “ And how does one consider it, exactly?”

She folded her arms across her chest, contemplating. She could still recall the hopeful determination she’d felt upon making her debut. If her powers of observation had taught her anything, it was that the lack of affection between her mother and father had rendered them miserable, whereas the true love shared between her father and Phoebe made them happy and whole. Therefore , Emily would accept nothing but the latter.

At least, that’s what she’d told herself at age eighteen. A conviction she’d tried to uphold throughout the numerous dances, the carriage rides in the park, the whispered words at the theater, when her heart could summon nothing beyond the mildest tug for any of the men who tried courting her. Until eventually, she’d had to ask herself if her beliefs about love were misguided. If , although her body had healed from the long-ago illness, something inside her remained broken.

She quietly cleared her throat, keeping her hands clamped tight around her elbows. “ One knows not to expect that every encounter with a gentleman will leave one’s head feeling as if filled with champagne and one’s stomach filled with butterflies. One instead thinks of a gentleman’s character. Of if he’s sensible, respectable, and chivalrous.”

That sounded trite, even to her own ears. Nonetheless , she wouldn’t let him see her cower from her opinions now. “ I’m pleased to say that Lord Coleville possesses all these qualities. He inherited his title recently, and unexpectedly, yet he has taken on the role with impeccable finesse. Both my father and uncle esteem him highly and hope to have him as an ally in Parliament .” Because if she couldn’t have champagne and butterflies, why not form a union that would benefit her family? Where perhaps affection would grow over time.

Nate made a sound that wasn’t altogether polite. “ I’m not sure that’s a good reason to accept a proposal.”

“ It’s as good a reason as any.” The line of her mouth grew severe, and her eyes became slits. “ Certainly better than basing one’s choices on a delusion. After all, what do I know about love? I once fancied myself in love with you .” She laughed, the sound creating a bitter echo.

“ You what?” His shoulders turned simultaneously stiffer and squarer, while his jaw seemed to grow loose at the hinges.

She wished she could take it back. Wished that this blasted orangery didn’t make her so free with her words. But at the same time … there was an odd sort of relief from having that burden unloaded. Therefore , she didn’t shy away. “ After all the Christmas Eves where we sat across the table from each other, don’t tell me you didn’t know. I’m certain that my ridiculous blushes, smiles, and giggles made it obvious.”

And still, the infuriating man said nothing, merely stared at her with a crease between his eyes, as if he’d never truly seen her before.

“ You did know,” she insisted, the ring of his dismissive chortle reverberating through her memory. “ But I was only a simpering, sickly child .”

Something flashed over his features. A dark glint in his eye, a twitch of his mouth. Comprehension . “ I suppose I did.” His exhale came out in an unsteady stream, and if she wasn’t imagining things, a hint of a flush spread above his drooping cravat. “ Emily … I wasn’t a happy person back then. Nor was I a considerate one. I wasn’t in a place to appreciate those sentiments, and I certainly didn’t deserve them.”

She shrugged, as if it made little difference. As if she’d never been a sixteen-year-old girl who’d fled to her bedchamber on Christmas Eve and cried herself to sleep. “ It wasn’t real love, of course. How would a girl that age know the true meaning of such a thing? I’m not certain I comprehend it even now. Perhaps , except in the rarest cases, it’s naught but an illusion.”

Somewhere along the way, his body had shifted closer to hers. Close enough that instead of just the fragrance of flowers, she could detect shaving soap, or cologne, or whatever it was that made him smell deliciously male. She could hear the rush of his breath when his lips parted and knew, by the shape they formed, what he was about to say. No .

“ I should go back to bed before I turn altogether maudlin,” she said in a rush, promptly drowning his refusal. She didn’t want him to tell her she was wrong. Didn’t want his placating, or anything else from him at all. She inclined her head, adopting her practiced expression of polite neutrality. “ But I do feel better than when I awoke, so I thank you, Mr . Pembrook , and apologize again for disturbing you at this hour.”

“ Wait .” Nate’s words—and the outward dart of his hand—stopped her just as she began to push to her feet.

And because they were still in the orangery, where the air smelled sweet and the tiles were warm beneath her slippers despite the icy snowflakes that pelted the glass, she obeyed.

He was the one to rise instead, poking about the orangery with the candelabrum in hand. But just as she was about to question what he was doing, he returned with a pair of shears, turning to the rosebush beside her. The one with the beautiful, vibrant blooms she’d earlier recognized as Slater’s Crimson and hadn’t been able to resist stooping to inhale.

The candelabrum returned to the ground. The blades of the sheers clinked together. And then, he was back sitting on the bench, tucking a lavish scarlet rose behind her ear.

“ What’s this?” Her posture became rigid; her insides, melting wax. Because his fingertip was brushing along her ear, a featherlight touch that lingered a second or two—or an eternity—before his hand came away, suspended in midair.

“ I thought you might enjoy it.” He paused, something in his throat seeming to catch. “ I thought … it would suit you.”

He was looking at her—they were looking at each other—so deeply. So closely. Like he wished to discern her thoughts. Like he could sense her heart ready to beat out of her chest.

Which was why she stood abruptly, her feet already moving backward—away from rosebushes and lulling heat that provided a false sense of security. “ Thank you again, Mr . Pembrook . I’ll bid you goodnight.”

She didn’t wait for his farewell before she pivoted and fled. Just as well, for as it turned out, she didn’t think he uttered one. Only silence followed her as she bolted out of the summerlike haven.

Silence , until the wind rattled the glass, and with it came a murmur she couldn’t be certain was real. A murmur that was stifled as she threw open the door to the corridor, and winter’s chill inundated her once more.

A murmur that stayed with her, nevertheless, as she fumbled through the dark, surrounded by the fragrance of the Slater’s Crimson . As she remembered the fragrance of him .

I was a damn fool .