Chapter 4
‘Am I interrupting?’
The words said with cutting self-possession caused poor Mr Sims to pale till he was as white as the lace trimming Emerald’s dress. She looked over the steward’s shoulder to the owner of the voice. She knew Beau had been in the room the day prior, riffling through her carefully organized papers, and was displeased but unsurprised to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his face the perfect mask of haughty indifference. She had always thought his eyes were cold, two beautiful cubes of ice with the same chilling effect, and as they raked her down, she fought against the inevitable shiver.
‘Not at all. In fact, we just concluded our business. Thank you, Mr Sims. You may go.’
The man rose to leave but was not quick enough to make his escape.
‘Stay.’ Beau stepped into the room, pinning the steward between them. ‘Beg pardon, Miss Doubleday. It sounded to my aged ears like you said our business, but I feel certain you meant my business.’
A quick, low groan escaped Mr Sims, who looked as if he were doing his best to melt into the floor.
Emerald’s eyelids fluttered, betraying her surprise and indignation. The man had been home mere days. If he wished for a hostile takeover, hostile she could be.
‘Business is synonymous with responsibility, is it not? Perhaps you can clarify—are you referring to the business that kept you from home for so many years, or the responsibilities here at Oakmoss from which you abdicated to the extent your name, title, and sex allowed?’
Mr Sims blotted his forehead with a handkerchief and uttered a distressed ‘Oh, my,’ but Emerald kept her eyes on Beau, watching his hard face for any indication he was humbled by her set-down. To her frustration she noticed nothing, not even the tick of a jaw muscle. Then, the unthinkable: He smiled, lopsided, wry, wolfish.
‘How kind of you to give me credit for the work I’ve accomplished abroad.’
‘Is that what you call it on the continent? Forgive my ignorance. Here in England I’ve only ever heard it referred to as gambling, partying, whoring.’
Mr Sims choked on a harsh cough and dropped back into one of the chairs. Both Emerald and Beau glanced at his red face, but neither was willing to call a truce.
‘I’d prefer you moderate your language to that which is more fitting for a young woman of genteel birth. You are not a slattern in a pub,’ said Beau, seating himself in the open chair next to the steward.
‘I’d prefer we not have this conversation at all. The words I choose to employ ought not even factor into your concerns.’
Beau brought his hands up in front of his chest and steepled his fingers. ‘You, Miss Doubleday, are one of my foremost concerns. Young ladies of your age and station should not be doing estate work.’
She rose from her seat and took several steps, finally coming out from around the desk dividing them. Beau dropped his hands and pushed up from the chair, taking one step to her three and stopping when he stood with his boot tip kissing her own.
His sudden nearness forced Emerald to tilt her head up to meet his stare. A faint scar sliced through the corner of his left brow. She spared a moment to wonder how it came to be there before saying, ‘Have no right is what you mean to say, is it not?’
A muscle in his jaw flexed, and she refrained from smiling in perverse satisfaction.
‘I say what I mean, Miss Doubleday. You are my concern.’ His countenance was serious and he spoke with quiet emphasis, letting the words come to rest in the tension stretching between them. ‘You ought to be going for rides in a little phaeton, organising picnics, attending assemblies, considering your future.’
‘An impossible task when one must spend her days surveying storm damage, settling tenant disputes, delivering charity baskets, paying calls, balancing the ledgers, discussing sick cattle—the list does run on.’
‘These responsibilities, as you pointed out, are mine, and I am happy to relieve you of them.’
‘You plan to remain then? The country has never kept you for long. There is not much in the way of…’ She paused, put her finger to her chin as she pretended to think, and finally added, ‘…entertainments here.’
‘Good girl.’
Mr Sims sucked in a loud breath through his teeth. Emerald’s skin caught fire, fury burning her from the inside out. And Beau grinned, a small, derisive, devastating thing. All at once, he was too close, too tall, too beautiful. In the folds of her skirt, she clenched her hands into fists, the edges of her nails biting into the tender flesh of her palms.
‘Is it my running the estate that sets your back up, or my doing it so well?’
Beau studied her, his head cocked, his face unreadable. Emerald forced her muscles to remain still under the heavy weight of his gaze. His eyes dropped to her lips. The insolent man had the nerve to let his attention linger. She imagined him studying the shape of her mouth, wondering if she’d ever been kissed, and heat spread its unseemly fingers over her chest.
Finally, he spoke. ‘How long have you resented me?’
‘How long have I lived here?’
‘What a wit you’ve become.’
Mr Sims made to rise once more. ‘I really ought to?—’
‘Sit,’ they said in unison, neither relinquishing the stare of the other.
She shifted her weight from one foot to another. ‘I don’t resent you. I detest you: your apathy, your total want of duty, your complete disregard for what you owe your name, your lack of respect for those who depend on you, your decision to avoid your responsibilities at the expense of others. Most of all, your ability to do so.’
They stood across from each other in charged silence. Emerald’s chest was heaving. Beau removed his snuff box from a pocket and took a pinch. The enigmatic look he gave her made her stomach clench hard, forcing a soft puff of breath from between her parted lips.
He leaned forward, a hand on the desk at either side of her—his face, his lips, so close to her own. ‘Were you afforded some measure of relief, Miss Doubleday, in venting your spleen?’
Against her will, she flushed. The display was beneath her. Her outburst was hoydenish and poorly done at best, cruel at worst. For almost nine years she had lived in this house—his house—and he’d never before taken notice of her. His audacity to do so now, and in such a way, infuriated her. ‘The only thing which could provide me any relief is your absence.’
‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, dear girl, either until I die or you marry. Shall I throw myself from my mount?’
Emerald’s dark eyes formed two narrow slits. ‘I begin to understand the appeal of a biddable husband.’
He raised an eyebrow as he withdrew a little, and she felt the immediate rush of cool air filling the space where his body had been.
‘Biddable? An unusual choice for a young lady. Have we done with handsome, rich, titled? By the by, should you find one matching your singular criteria, you may send him along at your leisure.’
‘To whom am I sending him? Your mother would not deny my happiness, and I am not so far from my majority. I’ll be one-and-twenty in little more than three months.’
‘I had not meant to suggest otherwise.’ Beau was the picture of equanimity, but Emerald couldn’t shake the sudden foreboding looming over her. ‘But she cannot approve of your marriage as she is not your guardian. I am.’