Chapter Two
Emma stared at the paper before her, fighting the urge to crumple it into a ball and throw it at Lord Limnwood’s perfectly proper head. His latest attempt at a Valentine’s verse was technically perfect in metre and rhyme, and utterly devoid of any real feeling.
“Perhaps, my Lord,” she managed, keeping her voice steady, “we might attempt something a touch more... heartfelt?”
He looked up from where he sat opposite her at the small writing desk, his grey eyes cool.
“The verses are perfectly adequate, Miss Everton. They follow all the proper forms.”
“That is precisely the problem.” The words escaped before she could stop them. “They’re adequate. Proper. And completely bloodless.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“I see. And what would you suggest? Something wild and inappropriate, no doubt?”
“Heaven forbid.” She couldn’t quite keep the edge from her voice. “But perhaps we might manage something between complete impropriety and utter tedium?”
Around them, the morning room buzzed with conversation as other couples worked on their assigned Valentine’s verses.
Lady Beatrice’s quiet laugh drew Emma’s attention to where her friend sat with Lord James, their heads bent together over their paper, clearly enjoying the task.
“The Duke has requested that each pair perform their verses before the assembled company this afternoon,” Lord Limnwood reminded her. “We cannot afford to be... experimental.”
“No,” Emma agreed, suddenly inspired. “But we might draw upon classical sources. Surely you cannot object to Ovid? Or perhaps Catullus?”
His eyebrows rose slightly.
“You are familiar with the classical poets, Miss Everton?”
“Is that so surprising? My father believed in education for both his sons and daughters.” She met his gaze steadily. “Though perhaps you find that somehow improper as well?”
Something flickered in his eyes - surprise? respect? - before his expression settled back into its usual stern lines.
“Not at all. Though I confess, I would not have expected...”
“A frivolous girl to know of such things?”
The words came out sharper than she intended.
“I did not say that.”
“You did not need to, my Lord. Your disapproval has been quite clear since our first meeting.”
He sat back slightly, and Emma was startled to see genuine confusion cross his face.
“You believe that I disapprove of you?”
“Do you not?” She gestured to the paper between them. “Everything I suggest is too informal, too spirited, too... everything.”
“I merely believe in maintaining proper standards.”
“And you believe that I do not?”
Before he could answer, Lady Anne’s voice carried across the room.
“Oh, how delightful! Lord Radmill, you must hear the verses that Lord James and Lady Beatrice have composed. Such perfect propriety of sentiment.”
Emma noticed Lord James’ slight grimace at this pronouncement. Clearly, Lady Anne’s interpretation of their verses differed from their intent.
“Perhaps,” Emma said quietly, turning back to Lord Limnwood, “we might find a way to be both proper and genuine? Unless you fear that genuine feeling might somehow taint propriety?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You do take delight in provoking me, do you not?”
“Not at all, my Lord. I simply believe that truth and propriety need not be enemies.” She picked up her pen. “Shall we try again? I promise to maintain perfect decorum, if you will allow at least a touch of genuine feeling.”
He studied her face for a long moment, and Emma found herself holding her breath, suddenly acutely aware of him as a man, not merely an embodiment of rigid propriety. The morning sunlight caught golden glints in his dark hair, and there was something in his eyes that made her heart beat faster.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Show me what you propose.”
Emma bent to write, trying to ignore how his proximity affected her. His cologne - something subtle with hints of bergamot and cedar - teased her senses. How unfortunate that such an attractive man should be so determined to eliminate every drop of joy from life. The scratch of her pen filled the silence between them as she wrote. When she finished, she passed the paper to him without speaking.
He read it, his expression unchanging. Then, to her surprise, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Catullus?”
“With significant modification for propriety’s sake,” she assured him. “Do you approve?”
“It is... acceptable.”
But there was something in his voice that suggested more than mere acceptance.
“High praise indeed, my Lord.”
She couldn’t quite keep the dryness from her tone. His eyes met hers again, and for a moment, something sparked between them - a recognition, perhaps, of the absurdity of their situation. Then Lady Anne’s voice broke the moment.
“Lord Limnwood, surely you cannot mean to allow such... experimental verses? What will people think?”
Emma felt Lord Limnwood stiffen beside her at Lady Anne’s words. She waited, breath caught, to see how he would respond to this public challenge.
“I believe, Lady Anne,” he said, his voice cool and measured, “that Miss Everton and I have found an acceptable balance between classical inspiration and modern propriety.”
Emma’s surprise at his defence warred with satisfaction at Lady Anne’s barely concealed frustration. The dark-haired beauty recovered quickly, however.
“Oh, how fascinating,” Lady Anne’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I look forward to hearing your... creation this afternoon. Though I fear some of our older guests might find classical allusions rather beyond them.”
“I suspect, Lady Anne,” Emma couldn’t help responding, “that you underestimate our audience.”
The morning room had grown quiet, their exchange drawing attention. Emma saw Lady Beatrice’s encouraging smile, and Lord James’ obvious amusement at his brother being drawn into literary debates.
“Indeed,” the Duke of Pelhampton’s voice cut through the tension. “I quite look forward to all of our performances. Now then, luncheon awaits, after which we shall reconvene in the drawing room to hear our poetic offerings.”
*****
The drawing room of Pelham Hall had never seemed quite so large to Emma as it did now, watching couple after couple present their verses. Lord James and Lady Beatrice had just finished a charming exchange of romantic compliments that managed to be both proper and genuinely sweet, earning warm applause.
“Miss Everton.” Lord Limnwood’s voice drew her attention. “I believe that we are next.”
She rose, suddenly conscious of every eye upon them. They had practised their alternating verses twice, agreeing that Emma would begin. Now, standing before the assembled company, she was achingly aware of Lord Limnwood’s tall presence beside her.
Taking a deep breath, she began:
“In gardens fair where lovers meet,
Where spring’s first breath brings promise sweet,
I seek a heart both true and strong,
To match the spirit of my song.”
His deep voice took up the next verse, and Emma was startled by the richness of emotion he allowed to show:
“Through duty’s paths and honour’s ways,
Through winter nights and summer days,
I seek a heart both wise and free,
To share life’s journey faithfully.”
Their eyes met as they continued, trading verses that spoke of love’s balance between freedom and commitment, joy and duty. Emma found herself caught in his gaze, the rest of the room fading away. There was something in his expression she had never seen before - a softness, a vulnerability that made her heart beat faster.
As they finished the final coupled verses together, the applause seemed to come from very far away. Emma curtsied automatically, her mind whirling. What had just happened? For those few moments, Lord Limnwood had shown a depth of feeling she would never have suspected him capable of.
“How... interesting.” Lady Anne’s voice cut through Emma’s confusion. “Though perhaps a touch too... passionate for a drawing room performance? What do you think, Lord Radmill?”
Lord Radmill cleared his throat. It was obvious that she expected her father to support her opinion.
“Well, I...”
“I thought it was beautiful,” Lady Beatrice spoke up firmly. “A perfect balance of classical elegance and true feeling.”
“Quite so,” the Duchess of Pelhampton nodded. “Reminded me of some verses my dear Duke wrote to me in our courting days. Though perhaps not quite so well composed,” she added with a fond smile at her husband.
Emma felt Lord Limnwood’s tension beside her as they returned to their seats. She glanced at him, trying to understand the rigid set of his shoulders, the way that his earlier openness had vanished completely.
“My Lord,” she began quietly.
“It seems,” he cut her off, his voice barely above a whisper, “that I was mistaken to allow such... emotional display. Lady Anne is quite right - it was inappropriate for the setting.”
“Inappropriate?” Emma couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. “To show genuine feeling? To actually mean the words we spoke?”
“There are proper ways to express sentiment.”
“Yes, there are. And we found one. Unless...” She met his eyes directly. “Unless you did not mean a word of it, did not believe in the type of sentiments that it expressed? Was it all merely performance for you, my Lord?”
Something flickered in his grey eyes - pain? regret? - before his expression closed completely.
“What else could it have been, Miss Everton?”
The words struck like a physical blow. Emma lifted her chin, refusing to show how deeply his dismissal hurt.
“How foolish of me to imagine otherwise. I shall know better than to expect genuine feeling from you in future, my Lord.”
She turned away, focusing determinedly on Lady Anne’s performance of some excessively proper verses with her partner. But Emma’s eyes burned with unshed tears, and she could not have repeated a single word of what she heard. Beside her, Lord Limnwood sat in rigid silence, and Emma wondered if she had imagined that moment of connection during their performance. Clearly, she had been a fool to think that anything could pierce his perfect, proper armour.
The remainder of the afternoon’s performances passed in a blur of proper verses and polite applause. Emma maintained her composure through sheer determination, though she felt Lady Beatrice’s concerned glances and saw Lord James watching his brother with obvious exasperation. When at last they were dismissed to dress for dinner, Emma rose quickly, intending to escape to her chamber. Lady Anne’s voice stopped her.
“Such a shame, Miss Everton, to have your... enthusiasm… lead Lord Limnwood into impropriety. But then, not everyone understands the importance of maintaining proper standards.”
Emma turned slowly. Lady Anne stood with several other young ladies, her smile pure poison beneath its veneer of concern. Before Emma could respond, another voice cut in.
“I found their performance most affecting.” Lady Agatha’s tone could have frozen the Thames. “Though perhaps one must have some understanding of classical poetry to truly appreciate it. The Duke certainly seemed to approve - and surely his opinion carries the most weight here?”
Lady Anne’s smile slipped.
“Of course, Lady Agatha. I merely thought...”
“Did you indeed?” Lady Agatha’s eyebrow rose. “How fascinating. Emma, my dear, pray accompany me to the library. I believe that I saw some volumes of poetry there that might interest you.”
Emma gratefully fell into step beside her aunt. They were nearly to the door when Lord James intercepted them.
“Miss Everton, might I have a moment? With Lady Agatha’s permission, of course.”
Lady Agatha considered him, then nodded.
“I shall wait in the library, Emma.”
When she had gone, Lord James spoke quietly.
“I feel that I must apologise for my brother.”
“There is no need, my Lord. Lord Limnwood made his position quite clear.”
“Did he?” James’ tone was wry. “I rather think that he did the opposite. You see, I have never seen my brother react so strongly to anything - or anyone - as he did to your performance together.”
“His reaction seemed clear enough.”
“Did it? Consider, Miss Everton - why would a man who felt nothing need to retreat so completely behind his shields of propriety?”
Emma’s breath caught.
“I...”
“Just something to consider.” He bowed. “And now I believe that I see my brother approaching, no doubt to corner me about proper behaviour. I shall make my escape while I can.”
He disappeared through a side door just as Lord Limnwood entered the main one. Their eyes met across the room, and Emma felt that same spark of connection which had so disturbed them both during their performance. For a moment, she thought that he might speak. Then Lady Anne appeared at his elbow.
“My Lord, you simply must give me your opinion on these verses. I have been working on a new version...”
Emma turned away, not waiting to see his response. She had preparations to make for dinner, after all.
And if her hands trembled slightly as she closed the drawing room door behind her, there was no one to see.
*****
In his chamber, Nathaniel stood at the window, watching Miss Everton cross the garden below with Lady Agatha. Even at this distance, her grace and vitality drew his eye. The sunlight caught fire in her dark red curls, and he found himself remembering how her eyes had shone as she spoke their verses. He had been a fool to let himself be drawn in, to show such open emotion. And an even greater fool to retreat into cold propriety afterward. He had seen the hurt in her eyes, though she had hidden it quickly.
A knock at his door preceded his valet.
“Your evening clothes are ready, my Lord.”
“Thank you, Staples.”
But he remained at the window until Miss Everton disappeared from view, wondering how he could possibly maintain his proper distance through two more weeks of intimate partnership, when every moment in her presence made him question everything that he had ever believed about propriety and passion. It had only been a little over one day, and already, she had shaken the very foundations of his existence. Somehow, he would have to find a way. The alternative - letting himself feel everything that she stirred within him - was unthinkable. Yet as he finally turned to dress for dinner, her voice echoed in his mind, speaking of hearts both wise and free, and he wondered if perhaps he was fighting a battle that he had already lost.
Dinner proved an exquisite form of torture. Seated beside Miss Everton again, Nathaniel found himself hyperaware of her every movement, every carefully controlled expression. She maintained perfect politeness, answering his few attempts at conversation with cool courtesy that gave him no opening for a more meaningful exchange.
Lady Anne, seated to his left, kept up a steady stream of properly elegant conversation, but he found himself comparing her practiced charm to Miss Everton’s natural grace, and finding it wanting. Even as he reminded himself that Lady Anne’s behaviour was exactly what society demanded, he could not help watching the way that Miss Everton’s eyes sparkled as she discussed poetry with Lord Radmill’s son, or how her quiet laugh at something Lady Beatrice said lit her whole face with joy.
“I trust that tomorrow’s activities will prove less... challenging,” Lady Anne murmured. “The Duke has arranged a scavenger hunt in the gardens. That has much less scope for inappropriate displays than poetry provides.”
Nathaniel saw Miss Everton’s shoulders stiffen slightly, though she gave no other sign of having heard.
“I found nothing inappropriate in today’s activities,” he said quietly.
Lady Anne’s eyes widened slightly.
“But surely you agreed that...”
“I agreed to nothing, my Lady. If you will excuse me, I believe that I see my brother attempting to catch my eye.”
It was a lie - James was deep in conversation with Lady Beatrice - but it served to end the exchange. As he turned away, Nathaniel caught a flash of something - surprise? satisfaction? - in Miss Everton’s expression before she looked down at her plate.
The Duke’s voice rose over the general conversation.
“I trust that everyone will be well rested for tomorrow’s adventure? The weather promises to be fine, and I have arranged some rather challenging clues.”
Nathaniel watched Miss Everton’s face light up at the prospect of intellectual challenge, and felt an answering spark of interest. Despite his fears about propriety, he could not deny that he looked forward to matching wits with her again. Heaven help him, for he was beginning to suspect that poetry was not the only thing about Miss Emma Everton that might prove dangerous to his peace of mind.