He was standing behind her, a fair distance away, but even at that range Isabella’s experienced eye could see that his clothes were cut of the finest cloth, with a graceful, tailored fit that only Weston could achieve. A criminal would never be so well turned out. Besides, the stranger had called her Emmeline. He obviously had been observing her, not because he was waiting for an opportunity to snatch the Braun children away, but because he believed she was someone he knew.
“I am afraid you are mistaken, sir,” Isabella stated in a prim voice that carried a trace of relief. “My name is not Emmeline. And I am quite certain we are not acquainted.”
Isabella squared her shoulders and waited expectantly for the stranger to turn and walk away. As she waited, she studied him openly, from his muscular torso, with its forest-green, form-fitting jacket, to his skin-tight, fawn-colored leather breeches and high black Hessian riding boots. The cream-colored embroidered waistcoat called her attention to his flat abdomen, and his snowy white cravat emphasized his deeply tanned features. Although the fit and quality of his clothes proclaimed him a gentleman, he possessed an air of dishevelment that seemed oddly out of character.
The stranger was returning her direct stare with equal scrutiny. Isabella did not wither under his heated gaze, but when her eyes met his penetrating gaze, she felt a rush of uneasiness. She knew for a certainty she had never met this man before, and yet she felt he was clearly under the misconception that they knew each other.
“Ittrulyis you, Emmeline.”
The sound of the stranger’s low, husky voice jolted Isabella out of her musing. His voice matched the rest of him—bold, strong and resonant. He advanced on her and she found herself looking directly up into his handsome face. Hard, steely gray eyes that held all the arrogance and confidence in the world focused intently on Isabella.
“I cannot believe I have finally found you, Emmeline. After all this time.”
Up close, the stranger’s features were uncommonly handsome—angular, chiseled, and decisively classic. He carried himself with a military bearing Isabella found both intriguing and intimidating. He did not openly threaten her, yet she had the distinct feeling he was holding himself in tight control.
As the stranger continued to regard her with a ruthless expression on his darkly handsome face, Isabella felt the hair on the nape of her neck raise. There was something dark and dangerous about this man. Everything about him seemed hard, unyielding and determined.
“I . . . I am sorry,” Isabella stammered, annoyed at allowing a tremor to slip into her voice. “As I previously informed you, sir, you have me confused with someone else.”
The stranger cocked his dark head slightly to one side. A stray lock of midnight-black curls fell onto his forehead. It made him look even more dangerous.
“Come now, Emmeline,” he responded in his deep voice. “Is that is all you have to say to me after two long years?”
He took another step forward, and Isabella had the distinct impression he was having to restrain himself from taking hold of her. Instinctively she stepped backward. The stranger halted instantly when he saw her hasty withdrawal.
Damien St. Lawrence held his breath as he glared in mute astonishment at the women standing before him. It took every ounce of military training and discipline he possessed to control the desperate urge he felt to rush at Emmeline, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her until her teeth rattled. But the earl would not succumb to his baser desires. Silently, methodically, he cautioned himself to be very, very careful. He did not want to startle Emmeline. Now that he had finally cornered her, the last thing Damien wanted was for his victim to bolt.
The earl continued to observe her beneath hooded eyes, his face lined with hawkish determination. Damien could barely credit what his eyes told him. After all this time, here was Emmeline, standing calmly in front of him, denying she knew him. Hadn’t he just been telling Jenkins he believed she was alive?
Damien had been drawn to her slender cloaked figure the moment he entered the small park. Drinking brandy with Jenkins into the wee hours of the morning had left Damien feeling numb and lightheaded, and he sought the fresh air to clear his head. After riding his favorite stallion through the streets of London, the earl stopped at the small park to rest his horse. And then he saw her.
At first the earl had been unsure it was Emmeline. Perhaps it was a trick of the morning sunlight or the effects of too much brandy. Damien continued observing the mysterious woman from a distance, with each passing minute becoming more and more convinced it was indeed his wife who stood a few hundred yards away. Finally he approached her, and when he stared fully into the woman’s beautiful, deceitful face, the earl knew Emmeline was alive.
Of course, his wife had changed. The changes were subtle, yet noticeable. Her fair complexion was paler than he remembered and her nose looked smaller, her mouth fuller. She was dressed as Damien had never seen her before, demurely, almost somberly, in a long, loose-fitting navy blue coat and a matching bonnet that completely hid her glorious auburn curls.
Well, she could change her clothes and her hairstyle, but there was one thing Emmeline could not change about her appearance. Her extraordinary violet eyes. Damien had never seen their like before. And he stared ruthlessly into them now.
She returned his hard glare with a mixture of barely concealed confusion and fear, but Damien understood her reaction. After two years he hardly expected Emmeline to politely greet him. She was probably as shocked to see him as he was to see her. And she was determined to deny her true identity. But again, Damien was not surprised. Emmeline had gone to a tremendous amount of trouble to “die” two years ago. He hardly expected her to so easily give up her masquerade.
Before Damien could question her further, a young boy’s cry shattered the turbulent atmosphere flaring between them.
“The children!” Isabella shouted in genuine alarm.
Dismissing the disturbing stranger, Isabella turned and raced down the embankment towards the pond.
She reached the edge of the water just in time to save Caroline from being pushed into the small lake by her brother.
“Caroline is cheating!” Robert shrieked in a high voice. “She said her stick won, but it was my stick that crossed the line first.” He stamped his foot in anger and lunged for his sister.
Isabella thrust her hand out automatically to intercept the blows Robert aimed at Caroline. His young face was twisted in a mask of rage. “You will control yourself at once, Robert!” Isabella admonished in her sternest voice. “Your behavior is thoroughly disgraceful.”
Caroline and Guinevere began sobbing loudly, frightened by Isabella’s tone and the physical violence exhibited by their younger brother. Isabella managed to subdue the girls with a threat to cancel all outings to the park for the next two weeks. The girls sniveled noisily, but ceased their howling and Isabella focused her attention on young Robert.
She held the struggling child tightly by his collar, at arm’s length, in an attempt to keep him from physically harming either her or himself. She shook him once, forcing his head back, and watched with relief as the blazing anger began to slowly recede from his blue eyes.
As the child once again regained control of his raging emotions, Isabella congratulated herself on adhering to her conviction not to use physical punishment to control intolerable conduct. Robert had tested her sorely on that point over the months, but so far she had not given in to the temptation to strike him. She was pleased to see him master his anger so quickly. Now if she could only prevent him from becoming so distraught in the first place, she would feel she had made real progress.
“Is everything all right, Miss Browning?”
