He scoffed. “A more ridiculous thing I’ve not heard in an age.”
“I highly doubtthatto be true.”
His brows shot up in challenge. “You have a suitor. Multiple, if I am not mistaken. Women on the shelf do not have gentlemen seeking them for a wife.”
Her lungs sought air. His steady approach and consistent eye contact were nearly predator-like. Together, they ignited all manner of fantasies he had no business placing in her mind. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Lofton, for one. If it is not plain to you, it is certainly clear to me the man is taken with you. He wanted to give you a dressing table.”
Her cheeks flushed hot.
“You did the proper thing, I will admit?—”
“He sent it over anyway.”
Owen seemed to go as still as a stone statue. His arm holding the candelabra was stiff, the flames casting light on them and making their shadows dance on the wall. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady. “I feel you need to explain further. He came to see you and offered the table again?”
“No. He visited Mrs. Buckley and gifted her the dressing table. She had no use or room for it in her chamber, so she directed the servants to put it in mine.” Emma swallowed. “It was meant to be a surprise.”
“A great shock, no doubt.” Owen rubbed a hand over his jaw. The stubble that had grown in over the course of the day cast a rough shadow, and she could hear the scratch it made against his palm. She longed to feel it herself. “I will see it returned if it bothers you. Only a quick word with my aunt would accomplish it.”
“She is aware of how I feel. If it is not Mr. Lofton’s place to provide me with furniture, Owen, do you think I would accept your assistance in returning it?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw as he leaned over her, biting back the words he seemed to want to say. “It is none of my concern.”
He agreed far too easily. It was deflating.
“And yet,” Owen said, reaching to set the candelabra down on the small table against the wall, “I want to make it my concern.”
Emma drew in a sharp breath. “You are speaking in riddles.”
“I think I am speaking rather plainly.” Owen took a breath, swaying closer. “In fact, presumptuous as I am, it has been my hope you are not as immune to me as you appear.”
She searched his gray eyes and let the truth slip from her lips. “I am not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Owen’s heartthreatened to burst from his chest and gallop away on its own. He had made a massive leap, but his heart still belonged to this woman. He wanted to soak in the way she looked at him now, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the nearby candles.
His hand curled, the backs of his knuckles brushing along her arm and then down her long plait. The smooth hair was velvet beneath his fingers, and he longed to wrap his hand in it. To lose himself in it. “Am I too late?”
“I fail to understand, Owen. You did not…” She shook her head. “I wrote to you. After you left, when I realized what a terrible mistake I’d made. You must have received my letter, for it was tucked within the folds of your aunt’s missive, and I distinctly recall the day when she received your reply.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“The letter,” she insisted. “When I jilted Lord Gifford, I wrote to you. I pleaded with you to forgive me, to ask if I was too late. You did not reply.”
Owen thought back all those years ago, but he couldn’t recall any particular letter from his aunt that had come with anothernote inside—certainly no note from Emma. Most of the missives from home had come from Uncle Edward. A few had arrived from his aunt, but very seldom. Nothing had come from Emma. He would know.
He would have remembered.
Owen shook his head. “I do not understand.”
“Do you mean you never received it? How is that possible? I recall the day your reply came to your aunt. I know you received hers.”
He searched Emma’s face but found it to be guileless. “I do not know. But I assure you I never received a letter from you.”
Her eyes widened in confusion.
