Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

G eorge leaned close to Emma as he carried her back and whispered, "I know you are unhurt." She pinned him with a deathly glare that could have frozen any other man in his tracks.

He'd had a feeling she was up to something. And he'd agreed to part ways with her to see what she had planned. The moment he saw her slump, he suspected, and rushed to get to her before Alexander could. He needed to save his friend from her clutches—or was it her mother's clutches? He recalled the way the Baroness had yanked at her daughter earlier. George had pretended not to notice and trudged ahead to respect her privacy.

Maybe Emma wasn't the villain, he wondered. After all, despite her protests earlier, she'd appeared content with their hunt, and only hatched this plan of hers after speaking to her mother.

"I cannot think of anything more hackneyed in getting a man's attention than a feigned twisted ankle, Emma," he couldn't help but goad now. As annoyed as he was, he found himself curiously glad she was in his arms and not another man's.

She neither took his bait nor argued her innocence. She simply accepted her fate in his arms as the others rushed to them, inquiring if she was all right. Alexander was at the fore.

"What happened?" His friend asked, concern creasing his features. George suddenly felt something prick at his insides. Alexander was not supposed to be this worried. Not about Emma. He had no right. A voice in his head pointed out how irrational he was being right now, and he quickly schooled his thoughts. He was acting quite odd lately.

"I think her ankle might be quite hurt," George spoke for her, meeting and holding her gaze in silent communication. She gave him a look which promised future retribution. And he strangely found himself looking forward to paying for his so-called crimes.

"Oh dear," Aunt Jane gasped.

"I will take her back inside," he added. And an equally worried Olivia quickly volunteered to accompany them.

They met Emma's lady's maid in the vestibule, and the girl, alarmed at the approaching sight of her mistress, rushed toward them. She threw back the covers up in Emma's bedchamber, and George gingerly placed her on the mattress.

"Would you like a physician, Miss Lovell?" He squared her with a deliberate look as he asked.

"No. I am fine," she quickly shook her head.

George felt a sly smile tug at a corner of his lips. She must have noticed it too, because her scowl deepened as she regarded him.

"Oh, it is nothing a little ice wouldn't be able to solve," she added when Olivia insisted on a physician.

"I shall get the ice at once, My Lady," the lady's maid said before disappearing.

After making certain Emma was comfortable, Olivia said, "Do call us if you need anything, dear."

Emma nodded. And with one last glance at her, and a glare in turn from her, George led Olivia out of the room.

Frustration inadequately described what Emma felt right now. Nothing she did seemed to work. The Duke was a menace she couldn't seem to shake off.

She got to her feet the moment she was alone, feeling the dampness of her dress cling uncomfortably to her skin. The door reopened just then, and panic fleetingly rose within her until she saw Antoinetta bearing a bowl of ice and a towel.

Her lady's maid's eyes widened in surprise and worry when she saw Emma standing. "You should be off that foot, Emma. You're going to worsen it," she began to fuss.

"I am fine, Antoinetta," Emma grumbled before going on to confess to her what had really happened. "My parents are about to chew me alive, and that confounded Duke is always getting in my way with the Earl," she complained.

Antoinetta was thoughtful for a second before she ventured, "Perhaps he secretly harbors some affections for you, and that is why he is always getting in the way. To keep other gentlemen away from you."

"Don't be ridiculous, Antoinetta," Emma snorted dismissively. Seymore had no feelings for her. He was just naturally spiteful and conniving, she thought irritably. Besides, she wouldn't entertain a suit from him if he was the last man on earth, and her father had a blunderbuss to her head to marry.

Better him than Neads, a voice in her head suggested. But she extinguished the thought just as quickly. She refused to contemplate it, much less admit it to herself.

"Maybe you should let him court you," her lady's maid suggested with a mischievous glint in her eyes now.

"Father would send me to a finishing school for ladies on the shelf before that would happen," Emma snorted, dismissing the ludicrous suggestion.

"But you don't mind his suit, do you?" Antoinetta pressed on, clearly enjoying the direction of their conversation.

"I am not interested, Antoinetta," Emma ground out, her patience wearing thin. "And besides, the Duke has no intentions of courting me, or anyone else. He's a sworn bachelor, remember?" She added, her voice firm, trying to convince both her maid and herself.

"You're blushing, Emma," Antoinetta teased, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Are you going to help me out of this wet dress, or not, Antoinetta?" Emma purposefully closed that subject of conversation. But in fact, she felt the warmth in her cheeks then, betraying her outward dismissal.

Antoinetta winked before getting to work.

The following night, Emma found herself unable to sleep as she pondered her pitiful prospects and bleak future. She had exhausted all her options in trying to get close to the Earl, and George was always in the way, thwarting her efforts almost as if by design.

Donning her robe, she slipped out into the dark and quiet hallway. It was quite late, and the household had retired for the night. Seeking some solace in a warm drink, she snuck into the kitchens where she found the housekeeper working late on what looked like some household accounts.

"Oh, pardon my intrusion," Emma said, her voice soft, surprised to find anyone still awake.

The woman dismissed her apology with a pleasant smile before asking, "Is there anything you need, Miss Lovell?"

"Just some milk, if it's no trouble," Emma responded, grateful for the kindness.

With a warm glass of milk in hand, Emma left the kitchens feeling slightly more content. The night outside looked quite peaceful and appealing through the windows, so she allowed herself to step out into the orangery. She took a seat on a bench underneath one of the fruiting orange trees, savoring her solitude and the comforting warmth of the milk.

But just then, she heard rustling not too far away, followed by footsteps. Emma's breath caught in her throat. She thought she had been alone. Who could possibly be up at this time of the night? She drew her robe tighter around her nightgown, apprehension gripping her as the footsteps grew nearer.

Then, someone emerged from the shadows. A man.

"George?" She heard herself blurt out in surprise, recognizing the figure before her.

He stopped in his tracks, looking slightly taken aback to find her there. He was dressed casually, in his waistcoat with his shirt sleeves rolled back, and his hair was disheveled. A faint smell lingered in the air around him.

Tobacco? She sniffed, trying to place the familiar scent that now mixed with the fresh citrus from the trees around them.

"Emma," George said. "What are you doing here at this hour?" His expression softened, curiosity replacing the initial surprise.

"I could ask you the same," she replied, her voice steadying despite her racing heart. The night suddenly seemed less quiet, less lonely, with George's unexpected presence.

Her gaze moved to her glass of milk, and she sighed. George quietly joined her on the bench, and they sat in companionable silence for a while as she sipped at her milk. The night was peaceful indeed, she thought, enjoying the quiet. And as though he'd somehow read her thoughts, George finally broke their silence with, "Not even the crickets and frogs seem to be out tonight."

"Only gentlemen getting in the way of a lady's solitude and peace," Emma quipped.

"Does this mean I am not welcome again?" He gave an exaggerated grimace.

"You just have the worst timing imaginable," she chuckled despite herself.

"Tell me then, when is the right time?" He asked, a playful note in his voice.

"Perhaps when you learn to mind your business," she returned lightly, and he chuckled.

"Please take a step back and let me get close to the Earl, George," Emma suddenly heard herself voice before she could fully process the thought much less rein it in.

He grew pensive, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Albeit he betrayed no surprise about him at her request.

"Why?" he finally asked, his voice low and serious.

"I cannot explain…" She faltered, unsure how to convey the desperation and the direness of her situation.

That her parents were blackmailing her to marry? How ridiculous would that sound? He would never believe her. He already thought her grasping as it was.

"Try," he encouraged gently.

"It is too difficult to," she shook her head, feeling a lump rising to her throat. "But I really need to do this, George," she implored, her voice thick with unshed tears.

"Do you love Firman?"

Her brows rose slightly, a mixture of resignation and defiance playing across her features. "I could grow to love him, in time, perhaps, but that is not what is important."

"Then what is?" he insisted.

When she did not respond immediately, caught in the gravity of their conversation, he pressed further, "You realize that I need to protect my friend, Emma?"

She met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a turmoil he was only beginning to comprehend. She remained silent, but the understanding was there—she knew of his loyalty to Alexander. But she had no choice. She needed him to understand that.

"I cannot presume to know your reasons, Emma. But if it is not love, I cannot allow it. Alexander is a brother to me. I must look out for him," he continued, his voice steady yet filled with an undercurrent of protectiveness.

"Especially after what happened in the conservatory, I must watch his back, as I would mine," he added, referencing the recent incident that had caused quite the stir.

Emma felt her cheeks warm at the reminder of the conservatory. She realized just then how closely they were seated, their proximity under the dim light of the orangery creating an intimacy that was both unsettling and undeniable.

"George I…" she began tentatively, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet night.

But he raised a finger and placed it against her lips, silencing her. His touch was gentle yet firm, a contradiction that somehow epitomized George himself.

Emma saw his face move closer, her breath catching in anticipation. But instead of the kiss she braced herself for, he suddenly got to his feet, breaking the moment and the spell.

"Surely you understand, Emma," he said, his voice low. And without waiting for her response, he added, "Have a pleasant rest of the night."