A future he had not even known he’d wanted until now. He was a bloody halfwit, to be sure—a rake who most defiantly did not deserve Emily, but one who was selfish enough to pursue her despite it.
Nicolas paced the length of the parlor, his fingers tracing the spine of a book he’d plucked from the shelf. The warmth of the crackling fire did little to quell the restlessness in his heart.
“I cannot stop thinking about her,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every moment we spent together, every laugh we shared... it is all etched in my memory.”
His mother leaned forward, her gaze soft with understanding. “What is it about Emily that captivates you so?”
He paused, a wistful smile playing at his lips. “It is the way she sees the world, Mother. Despite the hardships she has faced, there is a light in her that refuses to dim. When she speaks of her charitable works, her eyes shine with such passion...”
“You truly are in love,” Joslyn said, her voice tinged with excitement. “But brother, what do you intend to do now?”
Nicolas’s grip tightened on the book, his knuckles whitening. “I must return to her. I have been a fool. If there is any chance she might forgive me…” His voice faltered, but his resolve hardened. He had to try. “I must fight for her. For my chance at happiness.”
His father nodded with approval. “That’s the spirit, my boy. A love like this is worth fighting for.”
“I had hoped to keep you here for Christmas,” Mother said. “Your brother is due home in two days’ time and I was so looking forward to spending the holiday with all of my children. But there is not time to spare. You must go to Lady Fairchild at once.”
As the family continued to discuss his plans, Nicolas could almost see Emily, standing in the parlor of her country estate, the soft winter sunlight streaming through the leaded-glass windows and catching in her hair. The thought of holding her again, of confessing his true feelings, sent a thrill of anticipation through him.
“I will leave for Luton at first light,” he said, his decision crystallizing. “I only hope I am not too late.” The thought of never holding her again, of never making things right, clawed at his chest.
The path ahead was uncertain, but he knew with an unwavering conviction that Emily was worth any risk.
Ten
“Oh, drat,” Mathew said, frustration creasing his brow as the delicate ivory sticks tumbled onto the table.
Emily could not help but chuckle at her son’s frustration. “Patience, dearest. Spillikins is all about a steady hand and a calm heart.”
She leaned forward, her gaze warm with affection as she demonstrated the proper technique. “Watch closely. See how gently it is done.”
Mathew watched, his face a mirror of concentration. A triumphant grin spread across Emily’s features as she extracted a stick without disturbing the others. “Your turn,” she said.
As Mathew’s hands moved toward the pile, Emily’s thoughts wandered, unbidden, to another set of hands—larger, stronger, yet equally gentle. She shook her head, forcing the image of Nicolas from her mind.
A sennight had passed since that fateful morning when she awoke to find him gone, his presence fading like the last traces of moonlight giving way to the morning sun. The ache in her chest threatened to overwhelm her, but Emily steeled herself against it.
“Well done, Mathew.” Emily forced a bright smile, pushing aside her sorrow. “You are improving rapidly.”
“Do you think I will best Freddie Harrington when we return to Eton?” he asked.
Emily smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes. “With practice, I believe you will.”
As Mathew set up for another round, her gaze drifted to the frost-etched windowpane. The winter landscape beyond seemed to mock her with its serene beauty, so at odds with the tumult in her heart.
The memory of Nicolas’s warmth beside her, his whispered endearments, the feeling of completeness she had experienced in his arms—it all came rushing back with painful clarity. How could he have left without a word? Without an explanation?
Her hand trembled as she reached for an ivory stick. She had to be strong, for Mathew, for herself. She could not allow herself to be consumed by thoughts of a man who had so callously abandoned her.
“Steady, Mother,” Mathew reminded her.
Taking a deep breath, Emily squared her shoulders. “Indeed.” She smiled at her son. And as she slipped the stick free, she silently vowed to move forward. She would find happiness again—with or without Nicolas Winters. Yet, even as she made this promise to herself, she could not quite quell the traitorous hope that still flickered in her heart.
Nonsense. Nicolas had made his choice when he left without a word. Now she had to accept that there was no future for them. She could not allow hope to prolong her pain.
A sharp knock at the door startled Emily from her thoughts. Mathew jumped up, eager to answer it in the butler’s absence. Emily placed a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder, her thoughts briefly slipping away.
“Allow me, darling,” she said, smoothing her skirts as she rose.
