PROLOGUE
Emma Darling peekedthrough the upper window of Thornbrook Hall and noted the plume of dust trailing the lone rider down the lane. He rode toward her house at a rapid clip, as though hounds chased him, as though he could not arrive quickly enough. She gave a delighted squeal and lifted the hem of her skirt as she ran for the door.
Owen was coming.
“Miss?” her maid called. “Your hair!”
“Not now! I’m to have a visitor.” Emma’s heart thundered, her anticipation welling with each step that brought them closer together. Mother’s voice echoed through the corridor, blending with the regal tones of the baron’s mother. She would know that self-important, booming voice anywhere. And if she was gracing their drawing room for tea, that meant her son was at her side.
A sliver of distaste rolled through Emma’s stomach as the voices grew louder. There was nothing inherently wrong with Lord Gifford, but the extent to which Papa wanted her to choose him gave her an immense aversion to the gentleman. That, and he was notOwen.
She swept down the servants’ stairs, avoiding detectionbefore she could be waylaid. But upon reaching the ground floor and opening the door, she nearly collided with Mrs. Clifton.
“Slow down, child,” the housekeeper admonished, taking Emma softly by the shoulder. Her gray gown was fitted nicely, and a silver chatelaine dangled from her waist. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.” Emma could not dampen her grin for all her might.
Mrs. Clifton had been a fixture in her home for the whole of her life and knew her as well as her own mother did. She narrowed her eyes. “I have it on good authority that there is a gentleman waiting to see you in the drawing room.”
“Oh? How interesting.”
“Yet you are walking in the opposite direction.” Mrs. Clifton leaned back, assessing her. She was not fooled.
Emma needed to make her escape before Owen reached the door, or he would undoubtedly be turned away. Sometimes it seemed that the entire household was in league with Papa in keeping them apart.
“The baron’s mother is here visitingmy mother,” Emma clarified. She had not heard any male voices, so she was not being dishonest, despite her assumptions. “I have something I need to see to.”
Someone I need to see, she did not add.
“Emma,” Mrs. Clifton began, worry edging into her expression, “should you?—”
“I must see Penelope!” Emma called, skirting the housekeeper and darting away. It was a brilliant excuse, if she did think so herself. She could run directly for the stables. “You know how antsy she becomes when I have gone too long between visits.”
“But you aren’t even wearing your habit!” Mrs. Clifton called to her retreating form, a note of frustration in her tone.
Guilt pressed on Emma, but she shook it off, breaking intothe warm sunlight just as Owen’s horse came to a stop in front of the stables. A smile broke over her face. She tore into a run, conscious of the bank of windows facing the front drive and how many of them lined the drawing room. They needed to slip away before Mother noticed.
She circled the side of the stables just in time to watch Owen dismount his horse with practiced ease. His long, lean body was strong, and he planted his feet with surety before running a hand through dark brown locks that were in need of a trim and settling his hat on his head. When he looked over his shoulder and caught her gaze, his gray eyes lit, a smile washing over his handsome face.
Emma’s body surged with affection. She crossed the space between them and took his hand, heedless of the groom leading his horse away. “Come with me. I found a new patch of berries, and Cook needs an entire barrel of them if she’s going to make us a pie.”
Owen’s deep chuckle rumbled through the air, sending a thrill through her. His hand tightened around hers as he followed her out of sight and toward the woods. “Berries, you say?”
“Pie is the objective here.”
“Is it?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Why the skepticism?”
They broke through the first of the trees, and Emma relaxed, safe from any watchful eyes. She slowed her gait, falling in beside him. Owen tugged gently, slowing her to a walk, their hands remaining clasped between them. “Forgive me,” he said at length. “I assumed that to pick berries, one needed a basket.”
Emma’s laugh rang out through the trees. “I’ve been caught.”
“What are we running from? Or is it who?”
She paused. He would not like to hear the answer, of course. He was fully aware of how strong-handed her father had been intrying to push Emma and Lord Gifford together. “The baron and his mother are visiting,” she muttered.
Owen’s hand tightened reflexively. “Did he not come last Saturday?”
