Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Y ou are without mercy, George!

He turned toward Emma, his features half-shadowed by the night, the glow from his cigar casting a flickering light that made his expression even more inscrutable. Realizing that a confrontation was inevitable, Emma steadied herself.

"Should you not be up and fulfilling your protective duties then?" she asked, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves. She refused to allow him to intimidate her or worsen the guilt already gnawing at her.

He rose slowly, extinguishing the cigar on an ash tray beside him. Standing fully, he towered over her, the fire in his eyes nearly tangible, reflecting a mix of anger and something else she couldn't quite decipher.

"Would fulfilling my protective duties stop you from further machinations?" He challenged, his voice low and accusing.

He really did think the worst of her, Emma realized with a pang. Yet, she stood her ground, bolstered by the injustice of his accusation.

"There is only one way you can be certain of that," she retorted, tilting her chin defiantly, refusing to cower under his scrutiny.

"What were you doing in that maze?" His eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in his intense gaze.

"Haven't you already drawn up your conclusions in that regard?" Emma countered. Wasn't his evident scorn proof enough of his judgment?

"Did you truly fall?" He pressed further, ignoring her previous comment.

"I see you already know what happened then," she responded dryly, her patience thinning. If he had made up his mind about her actions, what use was there in explaining?

"Is that what truly happened, Emma?" George asked, his voice heavy with skepticism.

"I owe you no explanations, George," Emma replied firmly, feeling a surge of defiance. "Besides, you seem to have already made up your mind about me, and wouldn't believe whatever I might have to say."

"You don't know what's in my mind," he argued.

"Do I not?" She quirked a brow. "I hardly think your actions any different from your thoughts, and your comments at dinner have told me a lot."

"Oh, you are quite the expert now, it seems." He took several steps closer until he was towering over her.

"Do not condescend to me!" He opened his mouth to say something more, possibly to defend his stance, but Emma cut him off with a wave of her hand, her emotions getting the better of her. "You have no inkling of what it's like, George. You do not know what my life is like." She winced inwardly when she heard the slight tremor in her voice.

Her statement seemed to surprise him, because his expression flickered with confusion and something akin to concern. However, it was very brief before he regained his composure. "Whatever it is, it is no excuse for what you did," he stated flatly, as if laying down a final verdict.

"What did I do, George?" Emma challenged. He seemed so certain—excessively so.

"Do you truly need a reminder?" he retorted, his tone sharp, his eyes locked intently on hers.

"You seem so certain that I did something. So tell me. I want to know what absurdities that creative imagination of yours has drawn up."

"I have fair grounds for my absurdities."

"Only fair?" Emma challenged. "That sounds hardly convincing," she added with a cluck of her tongue, an insolent gesture that did not go unnoticed by him.

He visibly bristled at her words, the muscles in his jaw working silently as he composed himself. Despite the strain in their interaction, a familiar feeling of triumph washed over her, reminiscent of their past banters. Emma had missed those times—those were memories she feared she'd never relive.

George seemed to have written her off completely. If only he knew , she thought bitterly. When he did not answer her, she pushed. "Have you no explanation?"

"How about the fact that you are a fortune huntress with poisonous social ambitions, scheming to trap unsuspecting gentlemen?" he spat. "Is this less absurd and more convincing to you now?" His eyes burned with an intensity that she had not seen before.

"How dare you?" Emma's ire surged forth, her voice rising as her control slipped. She felt her hand fly into the air, aiming straight for his face in a moment of unrestrained anger.

But George was quick; he caught her hand mid-air, his grip firm and unyielding. Yet his touch was not harsh. Instead, it held a desperate sort of tension, as if he was grasping at the last thread of civility between them.

Emma watched the rise and fall of George's chest, noting the close proximity between them that she hadn't fully realized until now. Her eyes traveled up to meet his, and the intensity she found there shocked her further. Without warning, his lips descended onto hers, claiming them with a fiery urgency that reflected the passion in his gaze.

George pulled her fully into his arms, and she leaned into him. The kiss quickly shifted from fervent to tender, softening into a warmth that melted her resistance, drawing her closer into his embrace. The hand he still held gave a gentle squeeze, anchoring her to the moment, to him.

But the reality of their situation—the accusations, the hurtful words—soon reasserted itself. Emma pulled back sharply, her heart racing, her mind reeling from the unexpected intimacy. She stepped away, putting distance between them as she tried to understand the abrupt turn of events.

He, too, took a step back, his expression a mix of confusion and distress. "What is this?" he asked suddenly, staring at her as if he was in shock. "Was this also a part of your plan all along? To trap me too if you cannot get to Firman?" The accusation had her flinching as if struck, and Emma took several steps back.

"What?" Her voice was barely recognizable to her ears. She stared at him, disbelief and hurt swirling within her.

They stood there, the air dense and cold, as Emma fought to control her rising anger. "Trapping you, as you claim, would be the last thing I would ever consider, Your Grace," she asserted, her voice steady despite everything breaking inside her. "Because I know you would never do right by me. Or any other, as a matter of fact," she added, her words deliberate and cutting.

George looked visibly stricken by her response. Before he could say anything more, Emma turned on her heels, leaving him standing alone on the terrace. She walked away with her dignity intact, even as her heart ached with a sorrow too deep for tears. The night air felt colder as she stepped back into the solitude of the garden, leaving behind a part of herself with the man who could never understand her struggles or her heart.

"Confounded brush!" George exclaimed in frustration, tossing aside the brush with a flick of his wrist. It clattered across the desk, leaving a trail of green paint in its wake—a hue that matched the unintended smudge now marring the canvas before him.

He knew well that the brush was not at fault. It was merely an innocent bystander caught up in the storm of his emotions.

Nothing was going right tonight. He had thought that immersing himself in painting after the party would help to calm the tempest within him. Instead, it only served to amplify his agitation.

Glancing at the ornate clock on the mantel in the library, he noted that it was well past midnight. Perhaps he ought to concede defeat and retire for the night, as the rest of the household had undoubtedly done. Yet he knew such an attempt would be futile. Sleep would not come easily, not with his mind in such disarray and his heart in turmoil.

His gaze drifted back to the painting. It was a disaster, mirroring the chaos of his thoughts.

Emma had burrowed deep into his consciousness, her image haunting him relentlessly. At this moment, he could not untangle his feelings—was it anger he felt toward her, or was it a desperate longing that he couldn't quite comprehend?

He replayed their kiss on the terrace in his mind, a moment of unexpected intimacy that had shattered his defenses. Oh, what he wouldn't give to relive that moment, to stretch it out indefinitely. The memory of her lips against his was now a sweet torture, a reminder of what could have been and yet might never be.

"You look like you need a bit of warmth right now," a voice said, as a hand bearing a steaming teacup suddenly appeared before him. George looked up to see Alexander's concerned face as he offered the cup.

"It's summer. I'm not cold," George grumbled dismissively, his mood hardly improved by the offer. "What I need is some liquor," he added, his voice carrying a tinge of bitterness.

"It's Vervain. And exactly what you need," Alexander insisted, pushing the cup closer to him with a firm nod.

Reluctantly, George accepted the cup and took a tentative sip, mainly to humor his friend. To his surprise, he found the herbal tea soothing, its warmth unexpectedly comforting against the chill of his internal turmoil.

"Better?" Alex pulled a chair up next to George's easel and sat down, watching him with an attentive gaze.

"Not bad," George shrugged, maintaining his gruff facade. But at Alex's raised, dissatisfied brow, he conceded, "Fine. It's good," he admitted, allowing a rare, small concession.

Alex gave a light chuckle at George's reluctant admission, but his expression quickly grew somber once again. He leaned forward slightly, his concern palpable. "What is the matter, George?" he asked gently.

"What could possibly be wrong?" George retorted, his tone laced with sarcasm as he took another sip of the tea, avoiding his friend's probing eyes.

Alex studied him for a long moment, his gaze penetrating. "Is it Emma?" he finally ventured, hitting the mark with unsettling accuracy.

At the mention of her name, George sputtered and choked on his tea, caught off guard.

"Careful there. I didn't bring you tea to have you choke on it," Alex said with a slight smirk, handing him a napkin.

"Your nosiness tonight is certainly trying to choke me," George grumbled, his frustration evident as he set the tea cup down a bit more forcefully than intended.

"My nosiness is the only way to get you sharing what the matter is," Alex countered, his tone gentle yet firm, indicative of his concern and determination to unearth the truth.

"So, what happened between you two?" he pressed on, leaning forward slightly, his eyes locked on George's evasive gaze.

George sighed, having forgotten—or perhaps conveniently ignored—how tenaciously Alex could pursue the truth when he sensed something amiss. "It isn't Emma. What makes you possibly think that it's her?" he replied too quickly, his voice carrying a nervous edge that he immediately regretted.

Alex's response was a measured silence, his gaze unwavering as he studied George, looking for clues in his demeanor. After a moment, he finally spoke, his voice low and steady. "She wasn't herself the entire evening either."

George's mind churned at Alex's observation. She ought to feel some shame and guilt for her actions if she possessed some decency within her, he thought bitterly. The image of Emma trying to navigate the evening, her usual vivacity dimmed, gnawed at him. The recollection of what he believed she had tried to do in the maze twisted at him once again, fueling a mix of anger and an inexplicable ache.

He still couldn't fathom why the thought pained him so. And he wondered, perhaps hopelessly, if she felt any pain at all. He supposed not. Why would she? In his eyes, all she wanted was to secure a wealthy match and elevate her position in society, regardless of whom she might hurt in the process.

"You need to slow your steps for a bit, George," Alex's concerned voice filtered into his thoughts, breaking through his ruminations. "You're running to look after everyone around you, and more often than not, you forget to stop and take a look in the mirror. You need just as much attention," his friend added earnestly.

"Goodness, Alexander. One would think I completely neglect myself," George snorted, though a part of him acknowledged the truth in Alex's observation.

"Do you not?" Alex quirked a brow, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth, signaling he knew he had made a point.

"You always follow this," his friend said, touching a finger to his own head. "And often neglect this," he moved his hand to his chest now. "You need to listen to both, George. They are just as important as all the people you look after," he finished, his tone serious, imploring George to take his words to heart.

George grew pensive at his friend's advice. Was he really missing something somewhere? He wondered. Or maybe you're just refusing to acknowledge it, a voice in his head pointed out, suggesting that his emotional turmoil might be clouding his judgment.

"Think I can get any more of that tea?" George asked abruptly, finding the conversation about his emotional neglect too close to home. The tea was indeed good, and he did need it. But right now, more than anything, he needed to change the subject of conversation. The implications of Alexander's advice and the introspection it demanded were making him quite uncomfortable.

"I thought you said the tea was merely passable?" Alex challenged impishly.

"I do not recall myself saying that," George countered with a light smirk, playing along with Alexander's teasing.

"What were your words again? ‘Not bad'?" Alexander returned in ostensible thought, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.

"I rather doubt you'd like a tea that's merely ‘not bad', George," he added slyly, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Despite the heaviness in his heart, George laughed in spite of himself. Alexander always knew how to lighten the mood, even in the most turbulent times.

The following morning, George found himself standing in the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched Emma and her family prepare to leave. The carriage was outside, horses ready, as they said their goodbyes to Alexander, Olivia, and Jane. Each farewell seemed to pull at something within him, a mixture of relief and regret tangling inside.

His gaze involuntarily followed Emma. He watched as she hugged Olivia warmly, then moved over to Jane. Alexander stepped forward, kissed her knuckles in a gentlemanly fashion, and offered his hand to help her up into the carriage. Just as she was about to step in, she paused and turned back, her gaze sweeping the courtyard before landing unexpectedly on him in the doorway.

He saw her eyes widen slightly, the surprise evident as their gazes locked. The distance between them was filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. George held her gaze, rooted to the spot, his heart pounding audibly in his chest. As she stared back, the air thick with myriad unspoken emotions, he couldn't decipher if the look they exchanged carried threads of hatred or longing, or perhaps a tortured mix of both.