Owen was merely glad he had convinced her to accept the cottage. He faced the mirror in his bedchamber, tying his cravat simply. Slater had asked if he would like to move into the master’s chamber now that he had inherited, but Owen was more comfortable in the room he always occupied. It was small, perhaps, but he did not feel as though the house belonged to him. He would not displace his uncle so soon by taking his space and making it his own.
Especially not when Aunt Clara seemed so opposed to any change.
Once he was fully dressed in his evening clothes and prepared for dinner at the Yardley house, he left his room in search of Aunt Clara and Emma.
His truce with Emma was still a fledgling. But it meant they were friends, so he was permitted to look forward to spending the evening in her company. Their party of three was soon to be meeting in the?—
Owen’s steps faltered on the stairs. Emma stood in the entryway with her back to him, her hair drawn up high and simply styled at the crown of her head. She wore a fitted gown of navy blue that accentuated her waist and fell straight to the floor, curving over her like a seamless glove. The gown was simple but well fitted, and she looked all the more elegant for it. She shifted her head, offering a view of her graceful neck and soft pink lips tilting into a smile. Faint lines fanned from her eyes as she spoke to Aunt Clara.
Even after all these years, Emma took his breath away.
“Sorry I am late,” he said, pulling their conversation to a close. “Is the carriage ready?”
“It is.” Aunt Clara’s eyes sparkled up at him. She wore a gown of lavender with black trim and black lace to signify her half mourning. It was a good color for her complexion, bringing a healthy glow to her cheeks. “You look sharp, Owen. Miss Yardley will not know what to do with herself.”
“I will draw the least notice of this party. Both of you look beautiful.”
Emma kept her head up, but her cheeks flushed.
Slater opened the door for them, and Emma took Mrs. Buckley’s arm, leading her outside without acknowledging the compliment. Owen stepped around them, hurrying to the carriage to offer his hand to assist them each up the step. Aunt Clara took it graciously, but Emma hesitated.
“I will not bite.”
She scowled. “I know.”
But still, she lifted her hem and clutched the edge of the carriage as she climbed inside.
What the devil was that about?
Owen followed them into the carriage. The footman closed the door, and they were shortly off. He looked at his glove, but it was ordinary. Emma’s hand, too, appeared ordinarily outfitted in a simple dinner glove. Why had she refused to touch him?
“Will these friends of yours require us to remain long after dinner?” Aunt Clara asked.
Owen looked up sharply. “Are they not also friends of yours?”
“We’ve had no occasion to run in their circles, Owen. They are a younger set.”
He looked pointedly at Emma, but she looked away.
Aunt Clara caught the interaction, though. “We have mostly kept to the friends we’ve always had. The Yardleys bought Thornbrook Hall shortly after Emma left it, and their father was absent a good deal. We hadn’t any occasion to know them.”
“This is the new family who bought Thornbrook?” Owen’s eyes snapped to Emma, but she watched the window. A boring feat, he imagined, since it was covered by a small curtain. “Is it not difficult for you to return to your home?”
“Time has done much to dull those wounds,” she said.
But Emma’s reticence in joining them that evening camefreshly to Owen’s mind. She had wanted Aunt Clara to attend without her. Owen had believed it was because she did not feel it proper to be a dinner guest when she was a companion. Now he realized that was only a small part of her reason.
“That is not an answer,” he said gently.
Emma returned her gaze to the dark curtain over the window. She was seeing something, but it was only visible to her. Whatever the memory was that played in her mind puckered her forehead with a slight frown.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and the groom opened the door and let down the step. Owen slipped out first, taking the position to help out the women. His hand was directly accessible, daring Emma to defy him in front of their hosts’ servants.
She placed her hand within his and squeezed lightly as her foot searched for the step beneath the long skirt of her gown. Owen guided her to the ground, then helped his aunt, his pulse thundering.
Perhaps Emma had the right of it all along. The way his body reacted to her was as though the last nine years had not happened. As though she had not rejected him for a baron and torn his heart to pieces. His thudding heart had not seemed to recall the way it had ached for so long when she had turned him away.
Now, she only managed to make him feel excited again.
