Page 61 of The Marquess’s Forbidden Bride

Moodily contemplating a grey future of loneliness stretching years in front of her, she wasn’t aware that her aunt had entered the room and stood, watching her, until startled by her voice.

‘This is more than just sorrow at losing your reputation and fury at the unfairness of it, isn’t it?’ her aunt asked quietly. ‘You left behind a young man you loved, didn’t you? Your friend Charles. Did he offer for you, to rescue you from your dilemma?’

After a shocked moment, she confessed, ‘Yes. But I know he’s not ready to wed, so of course, I refused him. I’m afraid I do love him, but given my…circumstances, there’s nothing to be done about it. As you understand better than anyone.’

Her aunt touched her hand. ‘But again, our circumstances aren’t identical. Yes, I mourned a lost love, but it was a grief compounded by realising the man to whom I’d given heart and body turned out to be unworthy of either. I regretted my blindness as much as my loss. In his nobility and concern for you, your Charles has shown himself to be entirely worthy of love. And love is precious, my dear. I would not resign myself to a life without it so easily.’

Her words sent a flare of hope, quickly suppressed. ‘But what’s to be done? I may now know I love him, but even if we could overcome my disgrace…he sees me only as a friend.’

‘Just a friend? A man who risked the scorn of Society to offer for a woman who’d been shamed by another man, even though he did not feel altogether ready to do so? Who has been a constant and affectionate companion for weeks?’

Aunt Felicia shook her head. ‘I understand that he has a great deal to adjust to—the new title, the vast new responsibilities. All those must weigh upon his spirit. But once all that is sorted out…he may realise his feelings run much deeper than he knew.’

Emma sighed. ‘I don’t know whether to embrace you for giving me hope or resent you, knowing that hanging on to that hope will likely bring only a more lingering heartbreak. It would be wiser to resign myself to a life without him. One thing I do know, I have no interest in returning to London to attempt to restore my reputation or find another husband.’ She laughed. ‘I have even given up my old idea of trying to entice our neighbour Hugh Arnold into making a union of two agricultural enthusiasts.’

Her aunt chuckled. ‘Just as well! Hugh is now courting Squire Wendover’s daughter.’

Comforted by her aunt’s sympathy, Emma clasped a hand to her chest dramatically. ‘Then I am doubly abandoned!’

Still chuckling, her aunt shook a finger at her. ‘Up to your chamber with you and change for dinner! You can console yourself with Cook’s fine roast, and I’ll play your favourite songs on the pianoforte afterwards.’

Ah, that roast beef and some lovely melodies could cure her melancholy! But though she might mourn her lonely estate for the rest of her days, she’d not inflict a glum companion on her gentle aunt. For better or worse, she would have to create her future contentment by and for herself.

And she would, no matter how empty and desolate that future now appeared.

Meanwhile, in London, Charles returned to his library, grimly content with the results of his endeavours over the last few days. He might have been constrained from putting a bullet through Lord Aldersby’s despicable hide, and the retribution he was able to enact wasn’t nearly severe enough, in his opinion, to match the damage Aldersby had done to an entirely innocent young lady, but it had been accomplished without any public contact between them and the results could not be traced back to him, thereby honouring Emma’s wishes.

Ah, Emma, he thought as he seated himself behind his desk. As the days passed and the tumult of the encounters at Oak Knoll faded, Charles had tried to sort out his feelings about those encounters—and his failed proposal. Now, with the matter of Aldersby resolved to his satisfaction, with estate papers before him that he should be reviewing, he sat instead, wondering what Emma might be doing at this moment.

Out in the garden, planting seeds or cuttings? He smiled, imagining her at work, earth under her fingernails and dirt smudging her nose. Trimming plants to propagate or wandering around the beds, simply visiting her favourite flowers.

He recalled their trips to Kew, the joy and wonder on her face as she bid him draw closer and pulled a rose toward him so he might inhale the intoxicating sweetness of the bloom. He remembered her favourite variety, the petals fragrantly sweet with a hint of spiciness that teased the nose.

Like the lady.

How he missed her! Until her abrupt disappearance from his life, he hadn’t realised just how much he’d come to look forward to her company, depend on her advice about Society, enjoy her humour…thrill to hold her close and kiss her. He’d turned down all the invitations flooding in since his return to London; his anticipation of attending balls and routs, he realised, had stemmed from believing that after Oak Knoll, he might finally be able to dance with her, share refreshments with her and simply enjoy her company openly. If she were not going to be present, entertainments held no attraction for him.

He’d gone several times to dine with Hart and Claire and been happy to welcome Rafe and Juliana, who’d just arrived in London. But even in the company of his dear friends, he felt…listless and flat.

As he glanced again at the estate papers, trying to will into himself some enthusiasm for tackling them, he recalled again the daydream that often recurred when he was not preoccupied by some task. The dream of Emma, riding beside him across the fields and farms of the properties that made up the Stratton estates, trotting with her along his favourite trails by the river at Harding Glen. A dream that had each time brought with it a sense of peace, tranquillity and belonging, that now ended only with a piercingly intense sense of longing and loss.

Impatiently he struck at his chest, as if pummelling his heart could dislodge the feeling. Then, calling himself a fool, he dropped his hand as the realisation exploded in his mind.

He’d thought uncertainty had held his emotions in check, failing to recognise the hold she’d established over his heart. After she rejected him, he’d felt that he shouldn’t make any further move until she had time to recover. Until he finally relinquished his identity as a soldier and heir to a small manor and felt at home in his new role as marquess, possessor of great wealth and lord of vast properties.

When the truth was, his sense of belonging wouldn’t come from mastering duties or taking over command of places. His heart, where he felt at home, was with Emma.

Maybe it had been a mistake to avoid talking of love when he’d proposed, instead droning on about friendship and ‘rubbing well together’. When she refused him, she spoke only of not wanting him to ‘sacrifice’ himself for her—with no mention of her own feelings.

How did she truly feel—and how would she respond if he made her a genuine proposal, one that offered heart and fidelity and boundless love instead of banal contentment?

Could he be lucky enough that separation had broken down the last barriers of her resistance to marriage? Even led her to realise she loved him, as he now knew he loved her?

Only one way to find out. But having blundered unprepared into his first skirmish of a proposal, this time he would go in better armed. And gather all his most persuasive weapons that, he hoped with all his foolishly lost heart, would win him ultimate victory.

In the late afternoon five days later, Emma rose to her feet, regarding with satisfaction the infant shrubs she’d just planted out where the warmth radiated by south-facing bricks of the walled herb garden would nurture them. Dusting off her grubby gloves, she walked down the bricked pathway, inspecting the beds.

Perhaps she’d clip some herbs before she went in. She and Aunt Felicia were to dine with her younger sisters and her brother at Wellingford Hall tonight. Their cook would appreciate her bringing along a supply of the herbs that weren’t cultivated at Wellingford.