Chapter Eight

SOME PART OF HER—THE part that wasn't hounded by so much intrigue over the earl—was happy to be informed that he was gone to London for the day, and would she mind taking her supper in her rooms. This suited Emma perfectly, as she had yet to find ease with the sometimes practice of handing the child off to a servant while she'd partaken of meals with the earl in the dining room.

Later that night, she tucked Bethany into her crib just as a wild summer storm began to kick up. Fortunately, Bethany had fallen asleep before the thunder began to sound in earnest. Emma stayed inside the nursery for quite a while, making sure she wasn't wakened and frightened by the storm. When the rains seemed to be moving away, and the thunder and lightning began to fade, Emma finally sought her own bed. She had no difficulty falling asleep herself, as she found herself of late to be rather emotionally exhausted by day's end.

She woke to the sound of a huge crack of thunder pealing across the night sky. She leapt from the bed, imagining that if this round of thunder and lightning had woken her, it might frighten Bethany as well. But she heard no crying as she quietly walked through the connecting door to the nursery, which she always left open. Stepping within the room, she stopped suddenly upon finding the earl already there.

Her heart beat faster at just the sight of him. Dressed only in his black trousers, he must have heard Bethany wake whilst in the midst of preparing for bed. His back was to Emma, and Bethany's sleepy head was just visible over the top of his shoulder. He was soothing Bethany with a soft hum and a slight, fluid rocking motion.

Emma could only stare, half aghast at this picture—at the very fact that he seemed so tenderhearted as to be found rocking a frightened child to sleep—and half breathless as she hungrily absorbed the sight of his naked back and arms. The Earl of Lindsey boasted a magnificent figure; in the dim light, afforded by the open door to the connecting room she'd not yet dared to explore, he was a bronzed god of sinewy muscle; shadows danced merrily over this contour and that hollow of his skin; the very size and chiseled purpose of his arms alone brought her hand to her chest, as if that might still the rising rate of her heart. True it was that Emma had labored many years at an inn, but she had never seen a nearly naked man before, and still, somehow, she was quite sure that none could rival the form of this man.

Lightning streaked just as he moved to lay a sleeping Bethany down, and the noise paused him for a moment. He waited until he was certain she remained asleep and then did stretch his magnificent form over the edge of the baby's crib. Skin and muscle moved in conjunction with his reach, shapes appeared and disappeared, arms flexed and tightened.

Emma sighed just as he righted himself again, which did not go unnoticed; he turned rather sharply, affording her a fine view of his bare chest and lean abdomen. A sparse matting of hair was centered directly below his jaw, beginning at his chest and thinning to one straight line which stretched low and dipped beneath his trousers. His nipples, bare as a newborn come into the world, were dark and small, but peaked enticingly. The very shape of his chest was foreign to her, being that his was squarish while hers was round, his being firm while hers was soft .

She knew he watched her gawking at him but could not seem to move her eyes away from his person, being as entranced as she was. Only when he strode to her, Emma vaguely noticing the long and lean bare feet upon the carpet, did she finally look into his eyes. He kept coming though, seething, it appeared, breathing heavily through his nose. Without stopping, he grabbed her arm in a near-bruising grip, turned her around, and dragged her back into her own chambers. Dark eyes on her, he closed the door to the nursery almost completely with one hand, still holding her with the other.

Neither had yet to say a word, Emma having been rendered speechless while under the profound influence of his glorious form. When she spun around, and they faced each other so closely, she still could neither manage words nor take her eyes from his chest. A rare boldness, called forth by the intoxicating sight of him raised her free hand and set it on his chest. Slender fingers grazed the short, wiry hair of his chest, short tapered nails found the heated skin there. He drew a deep breath at her tentative foray. This drew her eyes to his, reading him, trying to interpret that feral gleam.

And then reality, and embarrassment, flooded her. Yanking her hand away, she curled her fingers into her palm just as he said, "Don't stop."

Emma shook her head, mortified, even more so as she was quite sure she discerned a lazy smile in his tone.

A taproom jade, indeed ! She'd just unknowingly vindicated him of any outrage she might have felt or sustained from the kiss he'd taken from her only days ago. Closing her eyes against a shame that, while powerful, was unlikely to aid her in undoing the last few moments and her unseemly behavior .

She pulled at the hand he still held and pivoted. But he would not allow her to turn away from him.

She couldn't—wouldn't—look at him now. She heard his heavy breathing, felt the stiffness come to him with her actions. And reactions. She swallowed hard, and shook her head again, lest he think to pursue this madness further.

"I don't know why I—" Staring at the huge and rumpled bed, she was only peripherally aware of his nod, controlled, silent. He glared at her a moment more. He wanted to say something, she knew, but he did not. Finally, he released her hand, turned on his heel and left her room, slipping through the nursery door the way he had come.

THE NEXT MORNING, EMMA approached the earl in the breakfast room, her cheeks unpleasantly flushed, her lips dry with distaste, and her stomach filled with dread. She'd mumbled through some atrocious apology, excuses such as "I haven't a notion what I was thinking...I was imbued with sleep yet," and, "You so caught me by surprise...having no shirt..." coming not so pluckily as she'd have liked them to. He'd lifted his head from his morning paper, considering her with a mute starkness about him that frightened her yet more. When he'd made no immediate response, even as his gaze had seemed to soften, Emma had flown from the room, nearly in tears, heedless of his eventual call for her to return.

She had avoided him for the next several days, quite sure that mortification alone might send her to an early grave. Never in her life had she behaved so wantonly as she had that eve with him. To her own self, she admitted that never before had she reason to be so tempted into shamelessness. She constantly chided herself, since then, that his figure alone should not have sent her into such depravity, and that his supreme gentleness and regard for Bethany was his only saving grace. Considering the man as a whole, Emma determined that he'd been rude and oppressive and autocratic since the very moment they had met. She wasn't so na?ve as to not understand what he thought of her. And now her own actions supported his belief!

Three days after what Emma now privately referred to as Her Inglorious and Reckless Blunder , the earl came upon her and Bethany taking a stroll, off the terrace and around the well-manicured grounds of Benedict House.

As his stride was quite purposeful across the trim and tidy lawns, Emma was immediately sent into a dither, gathering Bethany into her arms, turning slightly so that the wind stopped blowing the frill of her pretty bonnet into her face.

He stopped, several feet away from them, bending one knee while he kept weight on the other, his fine tall hat in his hand, tapped against his thigh. He was dressed formally and must have then, she presumed, just returned from London, as he so often favored fawn breeches and muslin shirts when here in the country.

When he seemed content only to stare at her, she lifted a brow to him, imagining—hoping—that his arrival was occasioned by some intent other than raking her rather severely with his inscrutable gaze.

He cleared his throat.

"I thought to take Bethany riding with me today," he said .

Emma did not know what to make of what sounded like uncertainty in his voice. She wondered if any living soul could claim to have ever heard such hesitancy from this man.

And then he said, "Mayhap you would like to accompany me as well. Riding, that is," which served only to confound Emma yet more. She was acutely aware that she knew nothing about anything, but didn't this just sound so fantastically like a polite invitation?

An invitation. From the earl. To spend time with him.

She felt that wicked wind send the skirts of her fine cotton gown firmly against her thighs. It whipped the fabric into a caress, pushing the skirts out and away from her, surely highlighting every curve and line of her legs. His gaze dipped there and then retreated as the wind faded, finding her eyes again as he awaited a reply.

Mulishness was the only motivation she could conceive to refuse him. But she thought he should know, "Of course I don't ride, my lord." She couldn't imagine why he might think that she could. "But I'm sure Bethany would enjoy the occasion." Truly, there was no reason to deny the child any experience merely to save herself from awkward situations, which seemed to consist of any time spent in the earl's presence.

She wouldn't have said he appeared, then, particularly disappointed as he strode toward her and lifted his hands to Bethany, who happily removed her arms from around Emma's neck and reached for him.

"Would you care to learn to ride?" He surprised Emma by asking then.

As she imagined she might never own her own horse, and while the idea took flight that she could never hope to have control over such a large beast, she shook her head. "I think not." As he stood there, just watching her once more, she wondered if he only awaited more words from her, that she thought to add, "But I thank you for the offer." His expression did not change. And he did not move, not even to bear himself and Bethany to the stables to find a mount. Awkwardly, Emma gave a brief smile and lifted her skirts. "I'll await Bethany's return at the house then." And she walked away—which seemed a perfectly acceptable thing to do, given that he'd said so little, and had just stated that he aimed to ride just now. Without turning back to see, she knew that he hadn't moved yet, and had the unnerving and cheek-pinkening notion that he still stared at her, that it took so much more effort to walk straight and with seeming calmness. Meanwhile, the wind continued to bedevil her, at one point lifting her skirts nearly to her knees.

Once returned to the house, and without a chore to attend, she wondered to Mrs. Conklin if she might only wander around the house, curious about the stately home but unwilling to trespass if it might be frowned upon.

Mrs. Conklin only shrugged. "It is only the earl and yourself in residence, miss. Aside from his personal chambers, if a door should be unlocked, feel free to explore. Of course, the ground floor is all servants' quarters but the first and second and third stories will show you some very pretty rooms, even if they rarely see any visitors these days."

"Does the earl not ever entertain?" Emma asked.

"The earl finds all his entertainments in the city, miss. Haven't hosted an event here since the countess lived, and that's more than a decade ago. "

Emma guessed she might have only assumed that people of wealth and consequence regularly held dinner parties and soirees, or similar frivolities. She thanked the housekeeper and found her own chambers, where she discarded her bonnet and jacket and then returned to the hall. With her hands on her hips, she glanced up and down the corridor, choosing where to start. Surely, this floor was mostly or only bedchambers, the Lindsey family apartments. She walked to the end of the hall and ascended a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor, peeking inside the first door she came upon. A disappointing beginning, as this room might well have at one time been a small but pretty bedroom but seemed now to have been relegated to that of a catch-all. Boxes and crates and furniture crammed every inch of floor space, appearing as if each new addition was only set just inside the door and pushed forward into an ever-growing mountain of discarded things.

Hoping to find something of greater interest, Emma proceeded to the next door. And then the next and the next, each of which showed only many bedchambers, grander than any servants' accommodations but not as stately as the second floor apartments. She had never seen so many chambers all under one roof. To some degree, almost every chamber had, over the years, been inhabited or suffused with odd furniture and more items of storage, that not one of them held particular appeal to Emma. Save for the third-to-the-last door she might have peeked inside. She paused just inside this room, taken aback by how much finer and frillier this room was than any other, made especially appealing as it had escaped the notice or intent of persons looking to stash no longer needed household elements .

She stepped fully inside, taking in the overall pink tone, still dominant despite the advent of dusty linens covering so much of the furniture and even the bed. The walls and carpets and window treatments all bore some design of pink, striped curtains and chintz floral wallpaper and a thick Aubusson carpet which once might well have been as bright as magenta.

Emma lifted the edges of one piece of linen, showing the subtly glossed wood of an armoire. Another lifted linen showed a pretty carved wood writing desk. Absently, Emma flipped the linen completely out of the way and opened the desk drawer. Or tried to. The drawer stuck but she had the impression that it only did so because too many papers were trapped inside, a hint of these seen from the barely open drawer. Facing the desk squarely, she gave another good tug, and then slipped her fingers within until she moved enough of the impediment away that it finally pulled open. It was indeed crammed with papers, flat and folded letters in a bold, hard-pressed script.

Emma withdrew the topmost letter, turning over the heavy paper to reveal it had been signed and sent by a George Fiske. A quick glance at the others indicated the lettering was all the same, the messages having come from the same person.

A scrawled phrase, until we meet again , caught Emma's eye. The date at the top of the letter read January, 1774. Curious, yet considering the aged letters fair game as she could likely injure no living person with her snooping, Emma read the entire letter, finding that whoever George Fiske was, he suffered quite a distant passion for "My darling Caralyn", who was, the envelopes said, a Caralyn Withers.

My love has made me selfish. Were that your hand were fast in mine .

Thus intrigued, Emma scooped up the entire contents of the drawer, all the letters, and found a pretty pink ribbon strewn and crinkled within the stack. At one time, these love notes had been tied neatly together. Emma considered that she'd found the drawer untidy, and immovable because of the messy business within. Had someone, at some time, come looking for a particular missive? Had they been frantic, ripping away the ribbon, and leaving the chaos behind?

Turning, Emma walked across the room and sat on the floor just at the edge of the once bright rug and beneath the set of double windows which afforded plenty of sunshine for reading. Thinking George and Caralyn's story would reveal itself more efficiently if the letters were put in order by the date of their writing, she took the time to do this, trying to keep any remaining envelopes still connected to its rightful contents. When she'd organized them, she counted twenty-eight letters. Leaning her back against the side of the linen shrouded bed, Emma began to read George Fiske's words.

ZACH RETURNED TO THE house almost an hour after stealing Bethany from Emma. Truly, he delighted in the child. She was easy to please, had taken to the riding as well as he'd expected, and hadn't fussed at all when he'd told her they were done for the day.

"We had ourselves a bit of fun, didn't we?" He asked her, as they swept through different rooms upon the ground floor, but found Miss Ainsley nowhere .

Bethany didn't answer and Zach was thinking she was tired. He marched up the stairs and knocked upon Emma's door but heard no call for entrance. A quick peek inside showed him only an empty chamber. Returning to the first floor, he finally saw another person, his housekeeper, stepping out of the dining room, a notepad and pencil in hand.

"Ah, Mrs. Conklin," he called to her. "Have you any idea where Miss Ainsley might be?

When Mrs. Conklin had informed him that Miss Ainsley had asked to tour the entire house, he'd wondered idly what might be done with the child now.

His housekeeper laughed at this, and Zach himself grinned, as he supposed it did rather sound as if he'd only questioned, Now what do I do with her?

"She will be ready for her afternoon nap, I daresay," suggested Mrs. Conklin, about to reach for the child.

"What does that involve?" Zach inquired, which had his housekeeper dropping her arms again.

A bit taken aback by his query and his interest, Mrs. Conklin had lifted a brow and told him, "Miss Ainsley likes to read to her in the nursery, while rocking. The sweet thing rarely resists—truly, she has the most wonderful temperament. And then she's put to bed and usually sleeps for more than an hour."

"Doesn't sound very difficult," Zach surmised. And he left the housekeeper, with a sleepy Bethany in his arms still, calling over his shoulder, "Look lively, Mrs. Conklin. I may return for assistance. But if you don't see me in the next half hour, you may assume I've successfully managed to put a toddler in for a nap."

He did just that .

Inside the nursery, on a small table beside the rocker sat a neat stack of books. Zach picked up the first one and settled into the chair. Tommy Thumb's Pretty Song Book, according to the frontispiece of the apparently well-loved and well-used tome, is what he employed to lull Bethany to sleep. Her little blonde finger pointed to the pen and ink drawings on the pages while Zach read different rhymes to her, some of which he'd not ever heard before, or recalled. Soon, her hand was still upon the open book in his lap, and Zach rocked a few more minutes to be sure she slept before depositing her into the short bed. He straightened and stared down at her, thinking that she was very dear to him already, and then feeling quite accomplished for the feat he'd just managed.

Of course, it could be argued that their vigorous outing and the excitement of their pursuit had just as much a hand in getting Bethany to sleep, but Zach was willing to share in the glory of the job well done. He set the book down and wondered still where Miss Ainsley had gotten to. He'd been disappointed that she'd had no interest in horseback riding with him, and apparently no interest in learning either. But she'd denied him her company politely, and seemingly without an agenda, that he could find no reason to be sore about it.

Touring the house, was she? Of course, it was possible that she remembered little of her own family's home, or maybe it had always been the inn, that Benedict House must appear a palace to her with it's endless passageways and corridors, and more rooms than a household of one hundred could properly utilize.

Poking his head into the library, drawing room, billiards room, and several others offered no sighting of Miss Ainsley. He had no specific reason to seek her out, but that he'd been plagued of late with the memory of the sensation of her fingers on his chest. He'd allowed her space for several days, her mumbled apology the morning after having been, he'd been convinced, akin to swallowing sand. Truth be told, it was in her best interests for him to have avoided her as well. He'd relived the moment so many times, had played out so many different endings in his head—none of which saw him actually leaving her that night—that he was certain being in her company before he'd managed to dispel the idea that he was a fool for not having swept her up in his arms and kissed her senseless would have seen him doing just that.

Now was safe. Daylight. Fully Clothed.

She would be safe from his desire, he was sure.

He wouldn't have guessed that the third floor would have called her attention, being that it housed only rarely used smaller chambers. Zach himself hadn't ventured upstairs since he was in short pants, but as he'd not found her upon the second floor, he was soon glancing inside different rooms on the top floor.

He almost missed her, even as he'd come upon the slightly ajar door and assumed she must be within, he immediately saw no sign of her and was already turning his shoulders away when he spotted the top of her head. Just the crown of her head, the contrast of her shiny mahogany locks against the linen covering the bed caught his notice. She was sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, he mused.

Curiously, Zach strode around the bed, his footsteps muffled upon the faded rug.

Emma sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, scores of papers floating all around her, her head bent as she perused the paper she held. In her right hand, holding one side of the paper, she held also a length of pink ribbon.

His tall Hessians were surely the first thing she saw as he came around the bed, alerting her to his presence. She gasped and lifted her eyes. Having discerned she was surrounded and engrossed in dozens of letters, he was about to tease her that she seemed to have accumulated an astonishing amount of mail in the short time she'd been here.

But the face she turned up to him—shimmering eyes shuttered by spiky wet lashes, red-stained nose, and sad little turn of her lips—brought a frown instead of a grin. Zach stepped fully in front of her, her gaze following him.

"Miss Ainsley? Dear God, what has happened? Have these letters delivered bad news?"

She nodded, and dropped her chin to her chest, holding out one hand to indicate the mass of correspondence. "Oh, it's just awful," she said and wept.

Zach went down onto his haunches, but she did not raise her tear-stained face to him. He thought the letters must be from a man, the script he briefly noticed being neither delicate nor pretty. His lip curled, presuming some undeserving blighter had just broken her heart.

"Now, now, Miss Ainsley," he soothed awkwardly. "No man is worth this painful weeping —and certainly not one who doesn't realize how rare a prize—"

Her expression changed, in the midst of his cajoling words, going rather blank so that he stopped speaking. Perhaps, in her mind, some chap was worth these tears.

But no. An uneasy giggle came next. And then the giggle evolved into a cheery if nervous laugh. She covered her mouth and her laughter with one hand, waving the other which still held a letter, flapping the paper rather jerkily. Above the hand covering her mouth, her watery blue eyes danced with merriment.

Finally, she apprised him, "These aren't mine." While Zach returned her gaze blankly, it was another few seconds before she settled her laughter and explained, "I was snooping and came across these old letters in the writing desk." She pulled the hand away from her face and indicated the small piece of furniture in his periphery.

He blew out a relieved burst of laughter and sat on the floor, beneath the window, putting his back against the wall. She was beautiful when she cried. Honestly, the redness seemed only to highlight the perfect blue of her eyes, making them brighter, more intense, so very animated. And that smile—surely she might ask for stars from the sky or water from a desert, and there would likely be many a man eager to delight her with at least an effort, if this smile be the reward.

"But then why do you cry?" He wondered, even as he was now so entranced by that gorgeous smile.

Her shoulders slumped. She lowered her head again, taking in all the letters covering her skirt and the carpet and the floor. "This man, George Fiske, is writing these notes to a woman named Caralyn—" the blue eyes found his again. "Do you know a Caralyn Withers? Is she of the Lindsey family? A relative? A servant? She must have stayed here or lived here. But something awful must have happened, for she does not give George the love he craves—though he seems to believe she wants to—and then these letters were just left here, scattered. I cannot believe she would have willingly abandoned all this love. "

"Hmm," Zach said, giving it some thought, still more mesmerized by the shimmering blue of her eyes. "There is no Caralyn in our family, not that I'm aware. And Withers is unfamiliar to me, as well."

"These were written in 1774."

"I see," he said, though it helped to define this Caralyn not at all. "That would make it even more difficult to identify this person. I don't even think any of the staff here now would have been here then."

"More than forty years ago," she said. "But listen to this." She moved her hands over the papers on the floor, sifting through the letters until she found what she was looking for and read to him. " I saw you last eve at Winthrops' less than fascinating dinner. You knew I watched you. My darling, you couldn't not have known. Surely your neck tingled with awareness. Surely your breath caught with wonder. Our hearts speak, even when we do not. But why, oh why, do you persist and resist? You said it yourself: the heart wants what the heart wants. Yet, you allow yourself not the chance to explore this. And still, your kiss lingers in my memory and, indeed, my own broken heart ."

Zach thought it sounded like a lot of drivel, and immediately thought he understood the entire circumstance: a lady allowed herself to be kissed by besotted man, then regretted the decision, and could not rid herself of the man's attention. How very... tedious. Save for the fascination instilled within Miss Ainsley at such heartfelt nonsense. He chose not to rain on her charming, lovesick parade and refrained from offering his own opinion on the matter.

She plucked another letter from the haphazard pile, and read, " 'Tis mercy, ‘tis shame, ‘tis joy and unbearable grief, to have that moment—‘twas only a moment I now see—to share love, and give love, and be loved. And then you were gone ." She looked up at Zach again, heaved a breathy and tortured sigh. "Oh, poor Mr. Fiske. And this part—" she consulted the paper again. " I had a dream and it was you ." Her hand fluttered over her heart.

Zach grinned, convinced more than not of the swain's unrequited love, wondering indeed if the uncompromising Miss Caralyn only thought the correspondence tiresome and overdone.

On the other hand, he considered Miss Ainsley's very keen reaction, and alleged with a lazy grin and no small amount of amused charity, "You are a romantic, Miss Ainsley." It was so unnatural to him. Women of his acquaintance wasted precious little time on such fancy. Love was only a lucky by-product of a solid union, not at all the sole reason for being. He couldn't say he was aware of or acquainted with any couple who was truly in love. Several friends might have initially lusted after their arranged wives, some might have genuine affection even, but no man, and rarely a woman in today's day and age squandered their dreams on so nebulous a notion. Certainly not with such tortuous ardor as the glib Mr. Fiske.

Miss Ainsley did not take exception to his accusation, only grinned and admitted, "I daresay you'd be hard-pressed to find a woman who might read these words, and not wish them to have been penned by her own object of affection." Her tone hinted at practicality, as if she only stated fact, and was not imbued what any sense of drama and gave no hint if this be her wish as well. She added, with a shrug of her slim shoulders, "Whether or not she might admit to this would be an entirely different matter altogether. "

"You have a very tender heart, Miss Ainsley." Despite your constant stubbornness in regard to all things having to do with me . He was filled with a sudden desire to know so much about her. He recognized the wonder of this, as he could not ever recall another person in whose presence he had been, which had found him craving...more. More knowledge, more time, more of her.

He shook himself, chastising himself internally. Good Lord, but ol' Mr. Fiske's covetous words must have left an impression indeed. Yet, he found himself asking of her, "Have you dreams of receiving words such as these from your beloved, Miss Ainsley?"

He'd employed a cautious tone, to give no indication of his own thoughts, but felt some censure had crept in there anyway, as evidenced by her evasive reply of, "Dreams are not for everyone."

Her entire manner changed then. With a suddenly tightened jaw, she began to gather up the many letters, putting them in some sort of order, as she did not simply collect them haphazardly, but consulted each paper and inserted it into the stack in her hands with some care, and at different places. "I am sorry for having snooped, for having made a mess."

Zach felt like a heel. "Miss Ainsley."

"And how shameful of me, to not have even inquired of your ride or—"

"Miss Ainsley."

"Or, my heavens, where is Bethany? How silly and irresponsible of me, to have forgotten—oh, but is she with Mrs. Conklin?"

Firmly now, "Miss Ainsley." And he reached forward and stilled her fretful hands with the touch of his own. "Bethany is napping. "

She looked up and nodded, her cheeks now a becoming shade of pink. She moved not at all now so that Zach retrieved the last few letters near his own legs and neatened them before handing them to her.

"Thank you."

"Have you no dreams, Miss Ainsley?" The want of this answer seemed to override everything else, including her sudden embarrassment, and his desire to kick himself for having caused it. At her blank stare, he clarified, "When you were a child, surely you must have dreamed of...something?"

"I didn't have any dreams," she supposed in a small voice. "Dreams of what?"

"Dreams of what you hoped your life to be."

A small grin, one without humor, curved her beautiful lips. "Perhaps you are not aware, my lord, that people from the lower classes don't really have accessible dreams. I had no dreams, my lord. I just imagined I'd get taller and older and hoped the Smythes lived forever so that I might always have the roof and the work."

"That reeks of a lack of imagination," he said, a frown hovering, "of which I'm somehow convinced you are not wanting."

She only shrugged, her lips rolled inward, as if to prevent herself from speaking.

Zach chewed on this, determining that she surely must be omitting something. No young girl, possessing the heart she obviously did, spent all her youth on such practical matters, giving no quarter to more personal desires.

When he only stared at her, seeking truth in the depths of her blue eyes, she allowed her own brows to crunch as she asked, " What did you dream of as a child? Did you dream to become a member of parliament?

"No, I thought for sure I was going to be a beekeeper when I grew up."

"A beekeeper?" She laughed, despite herself. "Like bumblebees?"

He shook his head. "Like honey bees." He offered a disarming grin. "When I was very young, my tutor, Mr. Fellows, had an ardent interest in beekeeping, and was allowed to do so right here, at Benedict House. We bred and cared for our own bees, made our own honey, it was all very exciting and...worthy, it seemed." He tapped his hand against his thigh, pursed his lips with some fond remembrance, and said, "My parents were indulgent, and truthfully, I cannot recall that they ever tried to dissuade me."

"So...what happened to the dream?"

"Life, I suppose. I went off to Eton and Cambridge, and Mr. Fellows moved onto to another lucky young man, who perhaps now laments that he wears a wig and listens all day to political blowhards hurling polite ridicule at each other while so few agendas are truly ever met, rather than ducking under the beekeeper's helmet and stepping into the beautiful buzz of thousands of honey bees."

"But why don't you have—keep? Is that the word—bees now? You've the means, and—oh, does it take up so very much time? You are gone often and regularly." But even this, she waved off, "But you've servants that you might train to help."

"I've thought about it. Seems to lose some of its allure, if I'm only to be paying a person to do the job—and that would be all it was to them, a chore, labor. "

"You're a fairly clever man," she said, "so I must admit to some surprise that you wrestle with this. My lord, parliament is not in session all year round. So find the perfect person, perhaps among the staff, who shares the passion. And when you're available, you enjoy all the benefits that come with doing something that you love, and when you are otherwise engaged, you have faith that whomever you've entrusted with the chore will give it the same passion as you."

"Having no dreams, what might you know of all the benefits that come with doing something that you love ?" He wondered, not at all immune to the charm of Emma Ainsley, who declared she hadn't her own dreams but now smartly demanded he make his come true.

"I have Bethany, so everyday I have something I love."

He allowed this to be her response, even as they both knew it was unrelated, and mused, "But now your circumstance has changed. You will ever have a roof over your head and needn't worry about any occupation—despite your claims to the contrary—so have you the luxury now of dreams?"

Mildly, with a ponderous tone, she said to him, "I shall have to give some thought to that and return an answer to you at another time."

Zach raised a brow to this and was sorry that she stood now and returned the tidy pack of letters to the drawer. He sensed about her some inner debate, to leave or to stay, to speak or to not, and he reluctantly aided this, by offering her escape, "I will see you at dinner this evening."

It appeared she released her breath at these words. Without looking at him again, she bobbed a hasty curtsy and with a bare, "Good day," exited the room .

Zach lifted a knee and draped his arm over it, considering Emma Ainsley just now, rather than the substance of the time they'd just shared. It wasn't easy to separate the woman from her beauty, but then he decided that even as she appeared to have no idea of the spell she cast, her physical loveliness was as much a part of her as was that tender heart, as was her innate sense of responsibility, as was her belief that she was so undeserving of dreams.

He sighed, not without some frustration. He couldn't deny he was attracted to her, couldn't deny he wouldn't mind exploring the fascination. But the allure had been born when he believed her so much less innocent than he now knew her to be. And his present desires merited no more time in his head, as they were now judged inappropriate, and ultimately would prove ruinous to Emma, if acted upon. When he'd kissed her previously, he questioned why he should feel poorly about it. And even as he knew the answer now—that he had no business dallying with so unsophisticated a creature, that the attraction would fade as had so many others before—he was teeming still with a desire to know more and show her more.

Ah, but that would be a dangerous thing.

She would leave soon, take that cottage as her own, be away from him. He wondered how a little nobody like Emma Ainsley would get on in the not quite sleepy town of Perry Green. It did not sit well with him, her living by herself. He thought it imprudent and dangerous, thought her too na?ve and too soft. But he hadn't cause to gainsay her, or his father's will. She couldn't stay on at Benedict House, not without causing ruin to herself as an unattached young woman. This short-term arrangement was acceptable, but if extended, it would only bring her trouble .

If she'd been reared within the city limits, if she had even a scrap of the stained and spoiled mentality of any person, nobility or otherwise, so necessary to escape life uninjured, he'd feel less uneasy with her being on her own. He should take her to London, give her a good dose of what people were really like, surprised she wasn't more jaded, having grown up in a traveler's inn. Credit to her mother and her sister, and even the Smythes then, for having recognized the pureness of her heart that she had been kept sheltered.

Take her to London?

Jesus, but it was perfect.

He could conceivably kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. He could introduce her to a larger population, one not always kind—but only briefly, as he'd not be happy to see her lose her untainted perception of people and things—and give her just enough of a taste of the true character of so much of the public. She would then be perhaps better equipped to live life on her own, and he would feel as if he'd had some part in preparing her better for the role.

In addition, the other bird in need of killing might be tackled, if he could convince Miss Ainsley to help him out with a rather frustrating issue he'd been dealing with of late.