Chapter 8

Acouple of days later, Emma knocked on the door of a very imposing but very beautiful manor in Hampshire. A wide drive curved toward Benbow Hall, and her nervousness had climbed as her carriage rattled closer to the viscount's home. David's manor consisted of three floors and was constructed from pale pink stone, with the windows of the two lower floors outlined in cream Bath stone. The roof was red-tiled and had a pronounced slope. The central portion of the main house was set forward from the two side wings. The front door was modest without an ornate portico, but the house was set in immaculately tended lawns with beautiful landscaping, lovely trees, and picturesque gardens. Her maid, Martha, unloaded the small valise and cast Emma a curious stare; however, she held her counsel. Finally, the impressive oak door opened, and a gentleman wearing spectacles perched on his nose peered down at her.

"I am here to visit, Viscount Barlow," Emma said with crisp authority and confidence. "Please inform him that Miss Emma Fairbanks has come to call."

The butler blinked his surprise and stepped back to open the door for her.

"Welcome to Benbow Hall, Miss Fairbanks. I shall inform my lord right away of your visit."

She nodded her head regally and swept inside, admiring the splendor of the hallway. A quick glance behind her showed a footman rushing to Martha to collect their valises and presumably leading her to the servants' entrance. The butler led her down the prodigious hallway to a small, tastefully furnished sitting room. Emma couldn't help noticing how bare the walls were of paintings and portraits.

A shout of laughter came from somewhere in the house, startling her. She looked around but noted the butler was no longer there, and the door stood ajar. Emma went out of the room and peered down the hallway. It was curiosity that pushed her from the room to explore the manor. The door leading down to the servants' staircase was open, and the sound of laughter and merriment floated up to her.

She discerned a smooth, masculine tone; from the swirl of heat dropping in her belly, she knew it to be the viscount. Emma went down the steps, her slippers echoing on the stone stairwell. She rounded a corner and paused to see the elder butler shuffling over to a pair of large wooden benches that seated at least seven people. Emma was overwhelmed by the warmth of the kitchens and the delicious aromas that floated in the air. For a working kitchen, everything was pristine, polished, and in its correct place. Despite the careful organization and cleanliness, it was a welcoming room and made her feel at once at home. It was a much larger space than the kitchens at Penporth, but it reminded her of sneaking into the kitchen when she was a child to be cosseted and spoilt by their cook and kitchen maid.

One of those gathered around the long wooden table was Lord Barlow. Nervous energy skirted down her back as she noted the viscount's state of dishabille. He sat around the table without a jacket or cravat, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was eating what looked like a savory stew from a bowl, and he laughed and chatted in a manner she'd not thought him capable of. The haughty arrogance and cool self-assurance that seemed to characterize him whenever she saw him at balls were no longer present. How carefree and charmingly handsome he appeared. How…happy.

And he was like this in the presence of his servants.

A rotund lady with pink cheeks reached over and ladled more stew into his bowl.

"Ye've lost weight since you went to town," she said, clearly fretting over him. "Now eat up, and I'll make that cake ye love for supper."

The butler did not walk to the viscount and greet him with any sort of bow. He pulled out a chair and lowered himself to the seat, reaching for his own bowl of stew. "A lady has called for ye, milord."

"A lady!" A young girl gasped, her eyes rounding. "For milord? A lady of quality?"

"A fine one by the looks of it, very beautiful," the butler said, taking a hearty mouthful of his stew. "She is also alone. Only a lady servant came with her, whom I believe George has taken to the smaller kitchen or sitting room for a spot of tea."

"I am not home to callers, Timms. I hope you informed this lady of it and turned her away."

"I left her in the smaller sitting room, milord."

"Get rid of her," he said curtly. "I am not here to any callers, and I'll be returning to town as soon as Mrs. Gilchrest is well."

Emma's heart pinched at his flat dismissal, and she backed up a step, intending to retreat back to the sitting room. The portly lady said something to him, and he laughed, the sound causing an odd sensation to flutter inside Emma's chest. She must have made a sound, for he looked over his shoulder. When the viscount saw her, he stilled as if he'd turned to marble.

Pleasure and surprise gleamed in his eyes before his gaze shuttered, closing her away from his emotions. A cry almost slipped from her at the loss. Suddenly Emma felt uncertain. She had scandalously arrived on his doorstep without an invitation or even sending him a letter about her intentions. It was also clear she had intruded upon a moment that felt…precious, and worse, he wanted to receive no callers.

"I am terribly sorry for intruding." A lump forming in her throat, she turned away and started back up the stairs. The sound of a chair shoving back echoed.

"Miss Fairbanks…Emma."

The soft way he said her name arrested her movements. Swallowing tightly, she turned around. Though his gaze remained unfathomable; a smile curved his mouth.

"Please do not go. I did not know it was you. I…" he raked his fingers through his hair, unknowing or uncaring that all his servants were staring at him with far too much familiarity and curiosity.

"Please, stay."

She nodded, smoothing her hand over the front of her butter-yellow day dress.

A small smile touched his mouth. "Allow me to introduce you to my family."

That shock once again pierced her. His family? The servants stared at her with apprehension even as pride filled their expressions that he had referred to them so. These people were more than his workers…they were his family. Her heart suddenly lighter, Emma smiled and bounded down the stairs without any propriety in her steps. Somehow, she knew under the viscount's roof, there would be no expectation of ladylike perfection on her part.

"Forgive my sudden intrusion," she said as she drew closer. "I had some fanciful notion about surprising you, my lord." I feel so silly now, she silently wailed.

"Miss Fairbanks…Emma, please allow me to introduce to you the best cook any lord could ever ask for. This is Mrs. Gilchrist."

The portly lady beamed nervously, wiped her hands into the apron tied to her waist, and dipped into a curtsy. She gasped when Emma responded in kind.

"This is my housekeeper Mrs. Reid, my butler Mr. Timms, Molly, Anna, Mary, and Carson."

Everyone had stood and bobbed their heads and curtseyed or bowed.

"This is Miss Emma Fairbanks…she is my…friend," he ended gruffly.

Emma blushed, for she knew what kind of lady friend usually called upon a lord's home without invitation. "I am very pleased to meet you all," she said with a smile.

Mrs. Gilchrist appeared uncertain as she offered, "I will bring up some cakes and sandwiches to the sitting room, miss, and a nice pot of tea."

"I will have some of your stew if there is more," Emma countered. "And perhaps I could have it here with Lord Barlow?"

The cook broke into a wonderful smile, beaming at Emma as if she were a precious creature. She was careful not to look at the viscount as she took a seat and waited for the savory dish to be ladled into a bowl. She could feel his stare upon her as he sat, and finally, she took a deep breath and glanced up, only to find him staring at her with hooded, unreadable eyes. "I shall leave as soon—"

"Stay. Please."

At that, the servants took up their bowls and fairly ran from the room going through a door that seemed as if it led to their parlor. The cook placed the bowl of stew in front of Emma, poured port into two glasses and set them down, then silently disappeared from the room. She reached for the spoon and took a mouthful of the rich stew. A delighted sound slipped from her as the flavors burst inside her mouth.

David smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corner. "Stewed mutton with carrots, turnips, potatoes, leeks, thyme, onions, and dumplings. One of my favorite dishes."

She chewed the tender meat and swallowed. "It is wonderful."

"Why are you nervous?"

Emma gripped the handle of the spoon until her fingers ached. "I feared I was too impulsive. You had an urgent matter to attend. I should never have followed down. I only got your letter a couple days ago."

She wrinkled her nose, fearing that she rambled.

"Mrs. Gilchrist had a fever. By the time I arrived, she was on the road to mending."

Emma had never heard of any lord leaving the season because one of their servants fell ill. An odd sensation wrenched itself through her chest. "She is important to you."

He held her gaze for a long time and said, "Yes."

Emma smiled and went back to eating, unwilling to badger him for information he may not wish to provide.

"How long can you stay, Emma?"

She met his gaze, her belly tightening at the flash of hunger in his. "Perhaps a week…or two."

"Where does your family think you are."

"Penporth."

His lips quirked. "Living dangerously, I see."

They shared a smile, and warmth kindled inside her chest and spread throughout her body. With a sense of astonishment, she realized she liked him. Very much. They ate in companionable silence for several moments before he said, "My parents died when I was ten years old."

Oh!

"My father first…and then my mother followed within a matter of two weeks."

"How awful," she said. "May I ask what took them?"

"Fever took my father and love took my mother," he said with such indifferent calmness that it took her a few moments to understand his words.

"What do you mean, David?"

That raw emotion touched his eyes before his gaze shuttered. "My mother loved my father too much to live without him. She cried and raged and screamed her pain for him until she went to bed and never got up. Everyone whispered that she loved him too much to live without him."

His explanation pierced her heart with painful precision, more so than any arrow could have ever done. What the viscount had not said echoed in his tone. His mother had not loved her son enough to live for him. She recalled his assertions then that love wounded and disappointed. Emma almost cried at how he must have felt as a child to hear everyone whisper his mother loved his father too much to stay alive for her son.

"I am sorry your mother did not stay."

David stared at her for a very long time but said nothing.

"How did your staff become your family?" she softly asked.

"I had no one else. They took care of me beyond what was required."

She could tell the viscount was not a gentleman used to sharing his intimate thoughts and feelings. They returned to eating their stew, and Emma realized she liked this silence. She did not believe she'd ever had a meal in silence before, not with her family. Sated, she pushed her bowl away and reached for the glass of port. It was not a drink designed for ladies, and Emma relished the taste as it slid down her throat. She emptied the glass feeling warm…and contented. David emptied his glass and shoved back his chair. She followed, and when he held his hand out to hers, she placed her fingers within his. He led her up the stairs to the main hallway and outside to a beautiful gazebo that overlooked the lake on his property.

He sat on the bench and drew her onto his lap. Emma gasped and clutched his shoulders. "David! What—"

He kissed her like a dam had broken. Need poured over her in waves, and she couldn't separate his from hers. His thumb found the edge of her jaw and tilted her head back, giving David the access he needed to deepen the kiss. Emma moaned as molten passion flowed through her body. She felt helpless…needy, yet also powerful as she kissed him, for the viscount trembled against her. He made a rough, guttural sound in his throat when she tangled her tongue with his. Hot jolts of pleasure coursed through Emma. She shifted on his lap, alarmed at the large hardness she felt beneath her. Their kiss burned with heat and tempestuous passion, and she swore she felt the echoes of longing within the cage of his embrace.

When they parted, he dropped his forehead to hers. "I am damn glad you came, Emma."

She laughed and hugged him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. This was where she wanted to be. The desire was mystifying, but it felt right.

"I have some business correspondence to attend to. Why don't you relax from your journey, and then by the time dinner is announced, I will be there to sup with you."

Emma nodded, an indelicate yawn catching her unawares. They retreated inside; David went to his study, and the housekeeper escorted Emma upstairs to a lovely room overlooking the lawns and the lake.

"Are we to continue to Penporth, Miss Emma," her maid asked, shrewdly watching her expression.

"No. We'll be staying at Benbow Hall for a few days. Am I assured of your discretion, Martha?"

"Yes, Miss Emma," she said with a small smile, hurrying from the room once she was finished assisting her.

Emma fished a book from her valise but found herself once again yawning. It seemed the journey and anxiety of seeing the viscount once again had tired her more than she anticipated. She did not bother putting on a sleeping gown but slipped beneath the sheets naked, hugged the pillow to her chest, and promptly fell asleep.