“Interrupted a game of chess he was playing at his club. Told him I meant to court you with the intent to make you my countess. I know you are past the age of consent. Well past. But I want to do things properly. Mr. Stitch was somewhat flabbergasted by my request. Stunned. He kept asking if I meanthisdaughter. I assured him I meant you, Emmagene Stitch.”
Her poor father, being confronted by Huntly while merely enjoying himself at his club.
“You must have caused quite a stir,” she said quietly into his coat.
“Somewhat. Mr. Stitch sputtered. Coughed on his brandy. But I made myself very clear. So I’ll subject myself to strolling in the park. Carriage rides. Ices”—he made a face—“at Gunter’s. Looking at you with worship from across a room. I’ll even attempt to dance. Whatever it is that makes you happy.”
Hemade her happy. Another tear slid down her cheek. “I don’t know if I can do this, Henry.”
Huntly pulled her close, one hand stroking up and down her back. “You can. In return for bestowing my affections on you, I expect you to wear something other than various shades of brown, indigo, and gray. A neckline that doesn’t stretch up to the bottoms of your ears. Possibly relax the style of your hair. A small trade-off, don’t you think, for a blissful future?”
“Blissful.” The word choked out of her. “Henry, we will be like a carriage accident in the middle of Bond Street. Unlikely but disastrous. Everyone will stare.”
“Let them. We will stare right back.” He tucked her beneath his chin, tugging up her legs so they dangled from his lap. “I knew we belonged together from the first moment I kissed you. I won’t lie and tell you I was happy about it. Because I wasn’t.” He paused. “I’m no great prize, Emmie. As I’m certain you’re aware.”
“Neither am I,” she murmured. “Shrewish spinster that I am.”
“See? We are a most suitable match. But if it takes a while for you to be convinced before you’re ready to hear me say the words that are inside me, before you can trust I won’t leave you, then I’ll wait, Emmie. For a lifetime if I must.”
Epilogue
“You’re very muchlike Peony. I can’t believe you don’t see the resemblance.”
Emmagene peered across the carriage at the Earl of Huntly, trying to keep from laughing out loud. She did that often as of late. Laughed. Giggled. There had even been a few hearty chuckles the other day.
“You realize you are comparing me to a skunk, don’t you?” Emmagene brushed the plush velvet of her bottle-green skirts, admiring the black piping along the hem. The heart-shaped neckline clung to the gentle curves of her breasts before squeezing her waist and falling into waves of fabric around her legs. A great deal of her arms and chest were exposed.
“I approve the gown, by the way. Lovely to see a bit of skin, Miss Stitch. You aren’t nearly as shriveled as a spinster ought to be.”
Emmagene wouldn’t be a spinster much longer; in fact, she would be the Countess of Huntly, though she hadn’t informed him yet of her decision. Their courtship over the last month had been difficult at first, mainly because Emmagene had refused to believe he was serious. But Huntly, true to his word, hadn’t done or said anything that would lead her to doubt him. Most telling was the fact he adamantly refused to touch her beyond a chaste peck on the cheek or the backs of her knuckles. He seemed determined to prove himself to her.
The knowledge he cared so deeply filled Emmagene with the most imaginable bliss.
“I’m glad you like it.” She took in his dark evening wear, which made his hair shine a deeper gold. He was big and imposing. Bloody attractive. He was even seated across from her in the backward-facing seat, something he hated but did for her without being asked.
“I ordered nothing in brown or gray, as I promised.” Emmagene clasped her fingers in her lap. “There is one gown of deep indigo, but the neckline is indecent.”
“Good. Are you wearing the stockings I sent you?” Huntly was eyeing her with no small amount of lust, something he struggled to control but had little success in doing.
Emmagene didn’t mind. She flourished and bloomed under his attention, feeling desirable and beautiful for the first time in her life. It was a heady feeling. She was also in love. Deeply. Honestly.
“I am.” The stockings in question were made of the finest silk and decorated with small hearts on the ankles and two more at her knees. Very suggestive. She wasn’t sure where he’d gotten them. There was little else beneath her petticoat but the scandalous silk against her legs, a little surprise for Huntly.
Emmagene meant to give Huntly his answer tonight and seal his proposal of marriage with more than a kiss. She’d endured sedate strolls. A ball or two in which Huntly had brought his flask, so they’d snuck away and shared a sip, but nothing else. He took her to the theater but not the opera, by mutual agreement. They’d gone riding, but after seeing Emmagene sit on a horse, Huntly had suggested she cancel the riding habit she’d ordered. He’d even taken her to a notorious gambling hell, where he’d taught her how to throw dice.
Her parents’ relief at the idea of Emmagene marrying was enough to force them to keep their distance. She was far too old for a chaperone at any rate. Not a word of protest ever crossed her mother’s lips when Huntly arrived for Emmagene in his carriage. Tonight she and Huntly were to attend a gathering at Lady Trent’s sure to be not the least amusing.
“Show me,” he growled.
“Yes, my lord. I will.” Emmagene dragged her skirts up her legs with exquisite slowness, the velvet tickling her silk-clad calves. It was an incredibly erotic sensation, which would be made better if his fingers followed.
“How obedient. Very unlike you.”
“That isn’t exactly what I meant.” She inched her skirts up to her knees, spreading her legs just slightly apart.
His gaze trailed over her ankles, to her thighs, as his breathing hitched. “What exactly is it you are referring to if not the stockings?”
“I’ll marry you, Henry. Gladly. Willingly.”
