Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

" Y es?" Emma answered and turned. Before her stood Firman, his hand outstretched with a bright smile gracing his features.

"May I have your first dance, Miss Lovell?" he asked, his tone hopeful.

Without a second thought, Emma accepted, her heart swelling with relief for the timely excuse to avoid Seymore, and for capturing the very Earl's attention which she so desperately sought. Indeed, fate seemed to smile upon her tonight.

As Alexander led her onto the dance floor for their quadrille, Emma glanced toward her parents. She caught sight of their expressions—there was pride shining in her father's eyes, and a look of relief mixed with anxiety etched across her mother's face. Their approval was palpable, adding a layer of responsibility to her steps.

"You look like a pigeon ready for flight," Alexander observed lightly as they positioned themselves among the other dancers. His voice held concern. "Is everything all right?" He eyed her curiously, his brow furrowed in worry.

Emma realized she must be doing a horrible job of concealing her emotions. "The warmth in the air must be getting to me, I'm afraid," she replied, offering him a reassuring smile that she hoped looked more convincing than it felt.

"Oh, in that case, a dance isn't what you need, but something cool. Perhaps we should—" he began, his suggestion hanging in the air.

Quick to maintain the facade of composure, Emma interjected, "Oh, I think I can countenance a bit of movement just fine. Besides, being stationary for long is only bound to add to one's restlessness," she added with a slight chuckle, hoping to dispel any further scrutiny.

She had the opportunity now, and she would be foolish to let her nerves hinder her, especially under her father's watchful gaze. Emma could feel his eyes on her, tracking her every movement as she danced with Firman. The Earl was genuinely one of the kindest people she had met; however, she had to admit to herself, albeit reluctantly, that he did not stir her heart the way Seymore did. This realization surprised her, and she inwardly scolded herself to appreciate the Earl's attention. After all, her parents seemed quite pleased with the pairing.

No sooner had her dance with Firman concluded than George approached swiftly and requested the next dance—a waltz. "Are you certain you do not need that lemonade first, Emma?" Alexander asked with a hint of concern as he handed her over to George.

Emma reassured him with a smile, "I'm quite all right, thank you."

"He's feeding you lemons now?" George quipped, a playful note of amusement in his voice, along with something she couldn't quite place—was it jealousy?

"Lemonade," she corrected him lightly.

"Same," he shrugged nonchalantly as he took her hand and led her toward the dance floor.

"Well, I certainly do not see any lemonade trees on the grounds," Emma remarked, her tone teasing as they began to waltz.

"Oh, even Firman does not possess such skill," George chuckled.

"Yet," Emma returned impishly.

"You have quite the confidence in him, it would seem," George quirked a brow, the air around him tensing noticeably. Emma found herself puzzled, unable to decipher the undercurrents swirling in his tone.

"Oh, he has such passion for his field, it's admirable," Emma responded warmly, her thoughts drifting back to her recent encounter with Firman in the gardens.

She had come across him the morning after she had sent him the note, where he'd mentioned that he owed her a tour of his plants. As he hadn't responded to her note, and made no mention of it, Emma had been left to wonder if he had received her correspondence at all. The Earl had seemed entirely oblivious to her letter—or perhaps he had chosen not to acknowledge it, though that seemed unlikely. She found the whole situation rather curious.

Nevertheless, it ultimately did not matter. She had achieved what she wanted in the end.

"Indeed," George replied tersely, snapping her back to the present moment.

"You sound like you do not agree with me. I think Firman's skills and dedication are rather commendable," Emma remarked as he skillfully twirled her past a clumsy pair on the dance floor. She noticed the protective way his arm instinctively tightened around her waist, sending a subtle thrill through her.

"I trust your plans for Firman are going quite well without my interference now?" George diverted the conversation, deliberately ignoring her previous comment.

Emma felt her brow rise in surprise at his pointed question. Was this what he deemed a lack of interference? When he'd practically pried her out of Alexander's arms the moment their quadrille ended? And he'd done it in such a manner that, with the curious eyes of the guests upon them, she had felt compelled to acquiesce. After all, one does not simply turn down a Duke.

"Oh, are you planning a grander way to interfere and trying to deceive me by pretending you're no longer meddling?" Emma quipped, her tone light yet edged with a real curiosity.

"You sound like a skeptical and suspicious old woman," he retorted, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"And what on earth would I stand to gain by doing that?" he added, genuinely perplexed or perhaps feigning ignorance, she couldn't quite tell.

"Why, to make me bring my guard down of course," she responded quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered his possible motives.

"You do not believe me then," he observed, his voice lowering, carrying a hint of something deeper, more earnest.

"Oh, you have never known to mind your business, George. My skepticism is not without experience," Emma chuckled, her laughter sounding more nervous than she intended. Yet, he appeared to find no humor in the moment as he held her gaze with his, penetrating and inscrutable. Emma suddenly felt exposed under his intense scrutiny. But, for some inexplicable reason, she found she liked his invasion of her defenses. She realized, perhaps with a start, that she wanted it.

Something about this man never ceased to draw her in and hold her captive. As he guided her across the dance floor, his movements were so filled with ease and finesse it felt as though they were floating. The ballroom, the whispering guests, the glittering lights—all seemed to fade away. For those moments, it was as if Emma and George existed alone in time. Her heart raced, not just from the dance, but from the thrilling, terrifying, and utterly spellbinding proximity to this man who always managed to unsettle her so completely.

George's gaze held hers so intently, so unwaveringly, that it seemed to pierce through her. Magical would inadequately describe what Emma felt at this moment, and something within her was changing quickly.

The music slowed, bringing the dance to an end, and she became aware of everything around them once more. She curtsied with as much grace as she could muster, though she felt somewhat dizzy—whether from the spin of the dance or the intensity of the moment, she couldn't quite discern.

"Thank you, Miss Lovell," George said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate more deeply than usual. He lifted her hand to his lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles. The gesture, though chivalrous, lingered just a moment longer than propriety strictly allowed. Emma thought she might be imagining the added warmth in his touch, given her flustered state, but the thought did little to calm her racing heart.

Nevertheless, as he released her hand, she felt heat flood her cheeks, accompanied by an unfamiliar fluttering sensation in her stomach. What was wrong with her? She should be more composed, more detached. This was George, after all—infuriating, meddlesome George, who never seemed to mind his own business.

Yet, as she stepped back, the warmth from his touch lingering on her skin, Emma couldn't help but question the nature of her feelings. Was it mere irritation that caused her heart to flutter so, or something deeper?

George pressed his cigar against the glass tray, extinguishing it as the library door opened and Jane walked in.

"What has you smiling so, Aunt Jane?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow in mild curiosity.

Jane's smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "The house party is going better than I anticipated," she replied, sitting on the sofa across from him.

George leaned back in his chair. "How so?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

Jane's eyes sparkled with delight. "There might be a wedding after the party. I can feel the romance in the air."

George snorted, shaking his head. "You are referring to Alexander and Miss Lovell, I presume."

Jane laughed. "Why do you think Alexander will not marry Miss Lovell?" she asked.

George sighed, knowing he was about to indulge her musings despite his reluctance. "Miss Lovell is not his match," he stated simply.

Jane's amusement deepened. "And why is that, pray tell?"

"Miss Lovell needs someone who matches her in intelligence and humor. Alexander, while undoubtedly intelligent, is very different from her," George explained. "She also requires a firm companion, and Alex is too soft."

Jane leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with interest. "You sound as though you are describing yourself as a match for Miss Lovell."

George stiffened. "That is utterly ridiculous, Aunt Jane," he dismissed her suggestion with a wave of his hand. "I have no such intentions. I cannot be caught."

Jane laughed again, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "Well, my dear George, sometimes the heart sees what the mind refuses to acknowledge."

George huffed, turning his gaze back to the fire. "You and your romantic notions. I assure you, there is nothing more to it."

Jane simply smiled as she rose. "Time will tell, George. Time will tell." She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as she passed him. "Do rest and, my dear."

George rose from his chair, the need for fresh air and clarity compelling him to pick up his coat. The manor's stifling warmth was no match for the crisp night air, and he ventured out into the gardens, his mind wandering back to that fateful night in the orangery.

He vividly recalled finding Emma there, her hair in a simple braid, her face lovely and seemingly innocent. He gritted his teeth at the memory. She is not innocent. She cannot be. If she were, she would not seek Alexander's attention or throw George into a state of confusion.

Lost in thought, he looked up absently and stopped walking abruptly. There was a figure in the distance, unmistakable even in the moonlight. He quickened his steps, his heart pounding with concern.

"What are you doing out here at this hour?" he asked.

Emma looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening slightly in the soft glow of the moon. "I might ask you the same question," she replied, her tone gentle but curious.

"I asked you first," George countered, his tone more brusque than intended.

She stopped and faced him. "I am unable to sleep," she admitted softly.

He moved closer, standing directly in front of her. "It is dangerous for a lady to be out alone at this hour," he admonished gently.

Emma smiled. "But you are here now, and you can protect me."

Her words sent a protective surge through him, and he offered her his arm. "Then you shall remain with me," he said firmly.

They walked in silence for a while. The silence between them was comfortable, yet charged with something unspoken between them. After a few moments, Emma broke the silence. "What are we doing, George? One moment we are in agreement, and the next we are arguing as if the earth is too small for us to coexist."

George couldn't help but tease her. "Perhaps it is too small for us."

Emma looked at him, and his breath caught. She was stunning, her features illuminated by the moonlight, and he struggled to resist her pull. She smiled. "If the earth is too small, perhaps we should conquer it together."

George laughed softly, his tension easing. "That sounds like a plan fraught with peril."

"Indeed, but we are both rather adept at navigating peril, are we not?"

"Speak for yourself, Miss Lovell," George retorted. "I am a model of caution and restraint."

Emma chuckled. "Is that so? I seem to recall a certain gentleman climbing a tree to rescue a kitten years ago. Olivia told me."

George feigned indignation. "That was a noble act of heroism, I'll have you know."

"Of course," Emma agreed, her eyes dancing with amusement. "And the fact that you fell and landed in a rose bush only added to your valor."

He laughed, shaking his head. "You are incorrigible, Emma."

"And you are infuriating, George," she retorted.

"For now, let us enjoy the peace of the night."

"I agree that we should," she said softly. Then she glanced at him, curiosity in her eyes. "But where are you taking me?"

He chuckled. "I am not taking you anywhere," he said playfully.

Emma glanced over her shoulder, then back at him, a wry smile on her lips. "We are out of the gardens and leaving the manor behind," she pointed out.

George smiled. "An adventure awaits us beyond the manor," he teased.

Emma laughed. "Have you always been so adventurous, George?"

No, you bring out that trait in me. George was behaving in ways that contradicted his very nature, and he was not sure whether he would win the battle against his inclination toward Emma. Her pull was too strong—like a forest creature meant to draw him in and keep him there for all time.

"I have always been cautious," he admitted.

She was quiet for a long moment, her steps slowing slightly. "I am cautious too," she said softly. "And obedient."

George wondered if there was a deeper meaning to her words, suspecting there was but unable to guess. He nudged her shoulder playfully. "Obedient? You?"

Emma's eyes sparkled then. "I can be obedient when I choose."

He laughed. "Thank you for correcting yourself—when you choose."

They arrived at a small lake, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. Fireflies danced above the water, their tiny lights creating a magical scene.

Emma smiled, her face enchanted by the sight. "It looks like it is from a storybook," she whispered, awe in her voice.

George nodded, his gaze fixed on her. "It looks like it is from a dream," he said softly.

She turned to him suddenly, her eyes searching his. "Do you dream, George?"

He did not answer, unable to trust anyone to carry his dreams. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "We should return before it gets too late and too cold."

She frowned, evidently surprised by his sudden distance. He walked her back to the manor. As they reached the servants' entrance, he lingered, holding her hand a moment longer than necessary.

"Good night, George," she said softly, her eyes holding his.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "Good night, Emma." Reluctantly, he let go of her hand, watching as she disappeared inside. His heart ached with a longing he could not name, and he turned away, the night air suddenly colder without her warmth beside him.

An hour later, George paced the length of his room, each step echoing the chaos of his thoughts. Sleep eluded him, his mind stubbornly fixed on Emma. She had infiltrated his thoughts, becoming a constant presence he could neither ignore nor dismiss.

It was now undeniably clear to him: Emma needed to marry, and she needed to marry well—and quickly. Yet she kept the exact reasons shrouded in mystery, a puzzle that gnawed at him with increasing urgency.

He recalled the sight of her dancing with Alexander, how it had left the most unpleasant taste in his mouth. It dawned on him that his distress was not rooted in any particular concern for Alex's well-being or happiness. No, it was the thought of Emma with any man but himself that he found intolerable. The jealousy was a bitter revelation, its truth inescapable.

George realized he could no longer pretend his interference was merely for his friend's sake. That facade had crumbled away; he wanted Emma for himself, and this admission struck him with the force of a revelation.

Abruptly, he halted his restless pacing, a decisive moment crystallizing his next steps. Before he fully grasped the implications of his resolve, he found himself exiting his bedchamber, drawn irresistibly toward Emma's.

As he approached, he noticed her door was curiously ajar. He paused, a flicker of hope igniting within him—perhaps she, too, was awake, caught in her own web of thoughts. He wondered if she found sleep as elusive as he did, if her mind was as tempestuous as his. With both apprehension and anticipation, he moved silently toward the slightly open door, driven by a newfound resolve to confront, perhaps to confess.

Most importantly, however, he no longer wished to hide behind pretenses.