Page 49 of The Marquess’s Forbidden Bride

‘So, what about you? Has Lady Englemere allowed you to skip some routs and balls and avoid Aldersby?’

‘Yes, bless her! Aldersby and the rest of the fortune-hunters. I thought not being present at balls would prevent having him call at Stanhope House—a courtesy expected when one dances with a lady—but he’s called anyway.’

Suddenly she looked…troubled. His concern immediately heightening, Charles said, ‘What is it? Did his behaviour warrant my sharpening my sabre?’

Her laugh sounded uncertain. ‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t walk in the garden with him, though he pressed me. I’ve not previously felt…uneasy in his company, but there’s something with the edge of desperation about him now. I’ve a sense that he would force my hand, if he could figure out a way to do it. Though I would not be forced, if he only knew it. He could attempt to steal my virtue, and I’d still not wed him.’

Truly alarmed, Charles said, ‘I will retrieve that sabre!’

‘No, no, I’m being overly dramatic, I’m sure. Even if he were desperate, I don’t think he would betray the scruples instilled in a gentleman and press me against my will. Not when he’s surely more attracted to my dowry than my person.’

He wasn’t so sure. Emma consistently undervalued her sensual appeal. Ought he to throw off caution and offer for her now, giving her the protection of an engagement?

But having evaded previous hints of his serious intent and begging for more time, would she be ready to accept him? He didn’t want to seem to be pushing her into something she didn’t yet want, lest she retreat from him entirely.

‘You mustn’t worry. I can handle Aldersby,’ she assured him, making him feel marginally better. ‘There are other females with acceptable dowries, after all. If I avoid him long enough, he’ll turn to someone more accommodating—and quickly, if his finances are truly in disorder. Well, enough on that distasteful subject! I’ll bore you instead with my enthusiasm about the new rose Johnson just sent over from Kew.’

Chuckling, he said, ‘Bore away.’

He listened, content to watch her eager countenance and drink in the pleasure of being near her. It struck him again that with her expertise and passion, she deserved to have a garden of her own and time to pursue her dream of discovering new plants. As he wondered what he could do to forward that aim, he recalled what she told him Hart had done for his Claire. Then stifled a laugh, imagining Lady Routham’s reaction if he were to gift some bit of Stratton land to Emma Wellingford.

Though if he wed her, he wouldn’t have to gift it—she would have access to it all, a little voice whispered.

The confused mix of anxiety and eagerness the idea of marriage always aroused filled him again, though the anxiety wasn’t as sharp as before. Perhaps he would be ready to move forward sooner than he’d thought.

But no need to worry over that now; he would concentrate on the delight of having her company almost continuously for the next three days.

After that, the public relationship begun here could continue in London Society. He’d have Hart to assist him in shouldering his new responsibilities in Parliament, and at session’s end, with dealing with his new properties.

His path toward fitting comfortably into the future thrust upon him was looking firmer every day. The path he now dreamed would lead him to Emma.

‘I suppose we should go in now and get ready, or we’ll not have time for that walk before dinner,’ she said, having concluded her commentary about roses.

Agreeing with regret, he led her to the entry steps, a heady sense of well-being swelling in his chest. Safe from prying eyes and censorious whispers, having the chance to openly spend his days with Emma? His definition of perfection! Buoyed with expectation, he escorted her in.

Two days later, Charles leaned on the terrace railing, waiting for Emma to join him for what had become their routine walk before dinner. Here at Oak Knoll, able to relax and be himself with no one looking for him to play the marquess, he’d passed the happiest few days since leaving the army. His comradery with Hart resumed as if it had not been three years since they rode the Peninsula together. He could almost believe them both back in uniform.

It was the calm before the storm of the rest of the Season, he knew. And he intended to wring every last drop of enjoyment from this interlude.

The sweetest part of that interlude had been finally dispensing with secrecy about his friendship with Emma. Who knew one could so thoroughly enjoy such commonplace things as chatting over breakfast, taking long rides through the countryside, partnering at cards in the evening, laughing and teasing all the while?

And then there were the garden walks. That walled rectangular space was not as full of flowers as Emma would have preferred; a small section with roses occupied one part of the short side nearest the house and an herb garden the other, with the rest laid out in formal squares edged with low clipped hedges, alternately enclosing statuary, shrubs of different hues or small dwarf trees. But his favourite place, the short side farthest from the house, boasted a long arbour covered with vines that provided a perfect private spot to share a few tantalising kisses. Kisses that offered him a bedazzling taste of the pleasure that awaited him one day—if he could persuade her to accept his hand.

‘Woolgathering?’ A soft voice recalled him.

He turned, drinking in the image of her, garbed today in a high-waisted white gown trimmed with gold and green that emphasised her slim figure, accentuating the gold highlights in her hair and the green of her hazel eyes.

‘Just waiting. Hart fleeced me royally at cards; I took myself off to lick my wounds and rally my depressed spirits before you arrived.’

‘No better place to restore calm than in a garden. Shall we?’

As she took his arm, he relished the press of her fingers warm against his coat, the sweet scent of her rose perfume, the tickle of a stray curl brushing his cheek. ‘Shall we visit your favourite roses first, gather some herbs…’

‘Or stroll directly to the delights of the arbour? I do so enjoy your kisses.’

As acquainted as he was with her frankness, her comment still surprised him. ‘Minx!’ he said, laughing.

It was one of the things he loved about her—that unabashed enjoyment of their embraces. No coy protests, no false-maidenly modesty, just a straightforward, exuberant acknowledgement of pleasure.