Page 48 of A Game of Hearts

“And have you learned your lesson well?”

“I believe that I have at least learned where to start.” His expression sobered. “That is, by saying, with complete sincerity, that I am more sorry than I can express for doubting you. For letting fear override trust. For hurting you just when we were beginning to understand each other, just when I was starting to let myself hope for something more between us.”

Her tears spilled over then. Nathaniel made an instinctive movement as if to brush them away, then stopped himself, remembering propriety. But this time the restraint felt like respect rather than rejection.

“We should go in,” Emma said softly. “Before we’re missed.”

“Of course.” He offered his arm with perfect correctness, as she brushed the tears away herself. “Though perhaps... might we walk in the gardens tomorrow? With your aunt as chaperone?”

“To continue this conversation?”

“To continue earning your trust.” His eyes met hers. “However long it takes.”

Emma placed her hand on his arm, feeling the familiar spark between them, but tempered now with understanding rather than just attraction.

“Tomorrow then,” she said. “We can begin again.”

The drawing room’s warmth enveloped them as they returned. Emma was acutely conscious of the eyes that turned their way, of the sudden lull in conversation which suggested that their absence had been noted. But for once, Nathaniel seemed unconcerned with the appearance of things.

“Miss Everton required some air after the excitement at dinner,” he said clearly, his voice carrying just enough for interested parties to hear. “I trust that Lady Anne’s departure has not cast a pall over the evening’s entertainment?”

The Duke’s eyes twinkled.

“Not at all. Indeed, I find the atmosphere much improved. Though I confess, Lord James’ talent for observation has quite overshadowed my plans for charades.”

“Perhaps something less dramatic?” Lady Beatrice suggested from her place at the pianoforte. “Some music?”

Emma moved to join her friend, aware of Nathaniel’s gaze following her. The weight of it felt different now - less a burden of judgment, more a warmth of genuine care.

“I trust all is... progressing?” Lady Agatha murmured as Emma passed her chair.

“We are beginning again,” Emma said softly. “With better understanding on both sides.”

Her aunt’s smile held satisfaction.

“Good. Though I suggest that you allow him to prove his word over time. A man’s actions speak louder than his declarations, however prettily phrased.”

“I have learned that lesson well.” Emma’s fingers brushed the pearls at her throat. “Though perhaps we have both learned something about trust and judgment.”

The evening passed in gentle conversation and quiet music. If anyone noticed that Lord Limnwood’s expression held more warmth than rigid propriety when he looked at Miss Everton, they were too tactful to mention it. And if Miss Everton’s smile, when she bid him goodnight, held promise of forgiveness to come, well, that was between them.

Some healing, after all, was best accomplished quietly, with patience and understanding on both sides.

Chapter Thirteen

Morning sunlight streamed through the drawing room windows, creating pools of warmth on the carpet where the Duke’s staff had arranged several small tables. Each held an array of materials - papers in delicate shades, ribbons, lace scraps, and tiny paste gems that caught the light.

“For our final Valentine’s activity,” the Duke announced, clearly enjoying himself, “we shall create tokens of affection. Though Saint Valentine’s Day itself has passed, the sentiment behind it - the expression of growing regard - remains worthy of celebration.”

Emma’s fingers traced the edge of a piece of silver-grey ribbon that matched certain eyes perfectly. She felt Nathaniel’s presence behind her before he spoke.

“Might I join you, Miss Everton? Though I fear my hands are better suited to ship’s ropes than delicate craftwork.”

She turned, finding his expression caught between hope and uncertainty. Yesterday’s reconciliation still felt new, fragile - like spring ice that might crack under too much weight.

“I should be happy to offer guidance, my Lord.” She gestured to the chair beside her. “Though I suspect that you underestimate your capabilities.”

His smile, when it came, held none of his former rigid restraint.