“Party… pooper,” she said, tapping his chest with her finger. And then she laughed.
“Having fun?”
“Maybe.”
He tried to tamp down his smile again but failed miserably. “I think it’s time to call it a night, Woodhouse.”
“Oh,doyou?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re not in charge of me,” she grumbled as she almost lost her balance again.
He gripped her arm tighter. “You sure about that?”
She scowled at him. “Do you get off telling me what to do or something?”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Do. You. Get. Off—”
“I heard you.”
“You think you’re just soooooo…”
“Careful now.”
“… perfect.” She whispered the last word as if she couldn’t come up with anything better. Damn, she really was drunk. “Why is it so hard for you to admit I know what I’m doing?”
“Yes, you’re in complete control,” he said wryly.
“Thank you,” she huffed, missing his sarcasm.
He chuckled to himself. “Time for bed.”
She paused, leaning into his body as if struck with a truly profound thought. “Bed sounds nice.”
“You gonna make it?”
She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
He sighed. “C’mere.”
In one swift movement, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, facedown against his back.
“Knightley!” she whined. “I haven’t said good night!”
She picked up her head and waved to no one in particular as he walked off the dance floor to the French doors that led to the kitchen.
Inside was dark and quiet as he gently put her down, though he was still almost carrying her as he guided her through the kitchen to the stairs up to the foyer.
The house hadn’t changed much since Knightley was a child. Its sprawling rooms were framed with towering white walls and intricate crown molding, all made inviting and comfortable by an eclectic mix of wide sofas and deep chairs. Everything was clad in whites and beiges, too; it always felt bright, even now as he expertly navigated around the furniture in darkness.
Growing up, he had spent more time at the Woodhouses’ than his own. But of course he had; the Woodhouse home was defined by its warmth and love and affection. It was everything the Knightley home wasn’t.
They made their way up to the foyer, past the dining room to the back staircase. He was careful not to make a sound across the white marble tile, even though he knew Mr. Woodhouse wouldn’t hear a thing from his room on the third floor. Emma’s room was on the second, along with Margo’s, or what had been Margo’s. But while Margo’s room faced the street, Emma’s faced the back garden. Knightley knew because it was directly across from his own.
“I think you can handle yourself from here,” he said when they reached the stairs. He released his grip on her waist, but she didn’t move from where she leaned against his solid frame.
