Emmagene crawled from the bed, ignoring the bored, almost angry look in Huntly’s narrowed eyes as he watched her dress. What in the world did he have to be put out about? In his mind, he probably expected to tup Emmagene right up until the wedding day. Perhaps remain her lover until he married another woman. Geoffrey had done much the same. She’d left him in the stables that day, rushed home in time for tea only to hear from her mother’s lips of his engagement.
She drew her robe over her shoulders, refusing to look in Huntly’s direction. She hated that he’d made her want more and wished with all her heart she’d never come to him tonight. Mostly, she cursed herself for her own stupidity in allowing herself to care for Huntly.
“Emmie.” He took a deep breath. “I wish you would stay with me.”
“Impossible, my lord.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “I’m in desperate need of sleep, and we both know I can’t be caught with you. Think of the scandal.”
She’d entered into this brief interlude with her eyes wide open. He’d never once professed any affection for her. Never lied or given her expectations. She’d done that to herself. Probably more the fault of this wedding and the insipid displays of affection between Honora and Southwell. Emmagene couldn’t possibly care for Huntly. She barely knew him. It certainly wasn’t love.
Her hands shook as she belted the robe.
Not yet.
But if she allowed this to go further, it would be. At least for her. Unlike her feelings for Geoffrey, which she now could see paled dramatically in comparison, Huntly made Emmagene want toclingto him. As if the world would suddenly become that much more appealing if he were next to her.
Frankly, the feeling terrified her.
“I’ll see you at breakfast, Miss Stitch.”
Huntly lay before her, large, naked, and incredibly male. A thrill ran through her at the sight, the memory of all that hard muscle and carnal intent curling around her.
She abruptly turned away.
If Emmagene didn’t leave now, hewouldlure her back into bed despite her resolve. She had to protect herself. It was that sense of self-preservation that propelled her to the door without a backward glance. She was doing the right thing. The only thing.
Shutting the door on Huntly, Emmagene hurried down the hall toward her own room, already concocting a tart explanation should she run across a maid. Sleepwalking. But she needn’t have worried. No one was up and about yet.
A note must be written to Honora. Another to Lady Trent. Her trunks needed to be packed, which she could do herself. Panic leaped up her throat. She had to get as far away from the Earl of Huntly as possible lest more irreparable damage be done to her.
After opening the door to her room, she went right to her trunk sitting in the corner and flung it open. Furiously stuffing in her clothing, she recounted all the reasons she didn’t like Huntly and how she could not possibly care for him.
Huntly would be sitting alone at breakfast. Or possibly not. Maybe Miss Cradditch would join him. She would be an appropriate wife for him or any other man.
Dear God, Emmagene sounded like a jealous fishwife.
Yet another excellent reason to avoid Huntly.
She meant to leave Longwood at first light.
Chapter Sixteen
Henry lay onthe ground, uncaring that he was ruining yet another coat and had leaves in his hair. Looking back toward Peony’s enclosure, he could make out, just barely, the small trail of strawberries and bits of apple he’d carefully placed to lure the tiny skunk to him. The idea to visit Peony had struck Henry as he’d sat alone, the only guest still in the breakfast room.
Emmie had never appeared.
He’d shown only mild surprise when South had informed Henry that Miss Emmagene Stitch had left Longwood at first light. But the knowledge had hardened inside him, making it difficult for him to finish his cup of coffee. Emmie didn’t want him. He’d shrugged and eaten another piece of toast. Nothing remarkable about the realization, except he’d thought…well, he’d thought there might be a different outcome.
He’d barely finished his toast, which was dry and tasteless as dust in his mouth, when a rather unwelcome confrontation with the new Countess of Southwell had occurred. Henry had had no idea Honora knew so many colorful curse words or could utter them with such vehemence. He wondered if she’d taught Emmagene. His first inclination had been to lash out at Honora, send back a series of scathing, chilly retorts, toss his toast at her, and walk away. Instead, he’d taken a deep breath and asked, in a calm, moderate tone, why Lady Southwell would think him to be such a rotten human being, besides his behavior for the majority of his life and in particular to Miss Stitch.
The first thing Henry had learned was that his interest in Miss Stitch hadn’t been as discreet as he’d assumed. Honora was fully aware he’d been tupping her cousin. She didn’t approve necessarily, but Emmie had seemedlighterafter, so she’d said nothing. As impossible as it seemed, she’d had to assume Henry was the reason. Now he’d driven her away with his careless regard to Emmie’s person. Didn’t he realize, Honora had demanded, how fragile her cousin was?
Fragilewasn’t the word Henry would have used to describe Emmagene Stitch, but he’d taken Honora’s point.
He’d bungled things with Emmie. Not the bedding her part—that had been nothing short of spectacular—but the discussion of marriage afterward. Looking back on their conversation, Henry had come to the conclusion he hadn’t been clear.
Honora was right. Hewasa bloody idiot.
The grass swayed gently to his left. The tip of a black tail streaked with white appeared, bobbing just above a patch of primrose.
