That resolution had been the cause of this mess.
Every night he and Emily spent together was another form of bliss and torture—a hint of what he could have if only she chose him.
Finally, on the fourth muddy, exhausting day of travel, they reached the inn at the village closest to Henry’s estate. Oliver helped Emily out, and he collected their luggage from the roof. Emily had taken very little with them; he suspected because she had little to take.
“The house is about five miles that way,” he said, nodding down the winding country road. “I’ll see if we can hire a horse. Or perhaps a cart.”
“I don’t mind the walk.”
“You aren’t tired?”
“I’m very tired,” she said, with a wry smile. “But a horse is an unnecessary cost when we have legs. And at least it’s flat.”
Considering he would have had to pawn something else to afford said unnecessary cost, Oliver resigned himself to the inevitable and picked up his case. “True. Compared to Cumbria, at least. Come on, the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get there.” He shot her a glance. “I think it might rain.”
“So much for looking presentable.” She smoothed the skirt of her dress, which might once have been a very passable gown.
“Even Henry won’t blame me for the rain.”
They walked in silence, or near to it. Oliver’s arm ached from carrying his case, and his other arm ached within his sling. But that was nothing compared to his fear that Henry would react against Emily before even getting to know her, dismissing her as another of Oliver’s whims rather than the lady he would have chosen to spend the rest of his life with.
Henry could judge him all he liked, but not Emily. Never Emily.
“Are you nervous?” she asked as they rounded the corner and Henry’s house came into view. A large property made from golden sandstone, with twin pillars decorating the front by the door and two wings extending in an L behind. “To see your brother again?”
“Mm, a little. He’ll be angry with me, and understandably so. I behaved badly the last time we parted. But I’m not ashamed of the reason I have come back, or of—” He almost slipped and saidloving you. That would never do. “Or of you.”
The sea breeze, heavy now with the scent of brine, whipped at Emily’s hair, tossing it across her face. She was as lovely now as she had ever been, even travel-stained, and he hoped Henry would see past the patch on her skirt and the worn, faded lines of the muslin, and see the vibrancy of the woman that lay underneath.
She reached out a hand to his and squeezed once. He entwined his fingers with hers, bringing them to his mouth. Then, shoulders squared, he dropped her hand and strode to the door, and knocked.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emilyheldherbreathas a footman opened the door, his expression barely cracking when he saw Oliver. His gaze travelled to her, and she did her best to remain utterly impassive. The corner of his mouth twitched, though whether in disapproval or amusement, she couldn’t tell.
“Mr Beaumont,” he said.
“I’ve come to see Lord Eynsham, Warren,” Oliver said. “Can you take us to him?”
Once again, the footman glanced at her, then back. “And your companion, sir?”
“This is Miss Brunton,” Oliver said, taking her arm possessively. “And she comes with me.”
“Of course, sir.” The footman gestured inside. “Right this way.”
Emily steeled herself as she stepped inside the house—though it was more of a mansion. Even her childhood memories couldn’t conjure something quite this grand. Marble hallways, statues mounted on plinths around the circumference of thelarge entrance hall. A beautiful mural across one wall. Grand windows overlooking the distant sea.
Oliver was right: these people certainly had the means to help her, if only they had the will. If she could have contrived without appealing to them, cap in hand, she would have done, but she would sacrifice even her pride to protect her sister.
As they walked through a series of large rooms, Emily noticed the lack of portraits. She had expected a family with such an impressive lineage to display their heritage in the most ostentatious way possible, but not Lord and Lady Eynsham.
Interesting.
“Oliver?” A dark-haired lady in sprigged muslin, a sheaf of dried flowers in her hands, entered the library from the other door and frowned. “Itisyou. What an unexpected surprise. Thank you, Warren, I can take it from here.”
The footman inclined his head and returned the way they had come. The lady advanced across the room towards them. She was perhaps ten years older than Emily, and although she was remarkably pretty, there was a certain cynicism in her hazel eyes.
“So,” she said, giving Emily an assessing glance, “am I to presume you did, in fact, marry the first girl you saw?”
