The Mister I Married (Romancing the Rogue #3)

Chapter Eighteen

The evening of Emmy’s inaugural dinner party finally arrived, and although the flowers had wilted by the middle of the meal, the conversation was lively, and the food and drink were both superb and enjoyed liberally by all, even her father-in-law.

By the time dinner was over, the mood was a distinctly merry one, and as the party retired to the blue salon—charmingly furnished with rosewood tables and seating upholstered in shades of blue and cream—Emmy couldn’t help feeling proud of herself.

“Congratulations on a successful dinner party,” Lucinda Ogilvy whispered as she looped her arm through Emmy’s and drew her in for a turn about the room. She was the picture of elegance tonight in dark green silk with her thick red curls piled high on her head.

“I’ve been a bundle of nerves all week,” Emmy admitted sheepishly. “I was certain this evening would be an utter disaster.”

Lucinda smiled. “But you were wrong.”

“Apparently so.” Emmy gave her new friend’s forearm a squeeze as their steps fell in line. “Thank you again for your help with the guest list. Your advice was invaluable.”

As a newcomer to the area, she’d had no idea whom to invite, but Lucinda was born and raised in Gladwin and she knew absolutely everyone.

“I was happy to assist,” Lucinda replied. “I think these dinner parties of yours are a very good idea. It is a shame that no one has had a chance to know Tess before now. She is such a delightful girl.”

Emmy smiled, her gaze finding her sister-in-law who was standing beside the pianoforte chatting with Lucinda’s sister, Catherine, and another guest, Miss Henrietta Plum, a petite blonde of similar age who was here with her mother and father.

“I hope these dinner parties will help,” she said with a sigh. “I hate to think of Tess holed up in this house all those years with no social life to speak of, and only her father and brother for friends. Not that she was unhappy, of course, but a girl ought to have female friends her own age.”

“I agree,” Lucinda said. “And I think she is lucky to have you in her life. You’ve made her very happy tonight.”

Emmy smiled as they paused together by the hearth, her gaze on Tess as she laughed at something Miss Plum was saying. She did look to be enjoying herself this evening, and even seemed to be making new friends, just as Emmy had hoped she would.

She’d worried the evening would be a total shambles, but everything had gone according to plan—wilted table flowers notwithstanding—and she’d even managed to relax enough to enjoy herself.

She had Alex to thank for that, at least in part. He was a surprisingly good host, friendly and interested as he conversed with their guests, and though Emmy suspected he would rather be almost anywhere else tonight, he was here, and he was doing his part to make the evening a success.

He was with Lucinda’s husband now, standing near the door with a glass of claret in one hand, his other tucked away in his trouser pocket. Mr. Ogilvy, a slender, fair-haired man with warm green eyes and perpetually-rosy cheeks, appeared to be chatting his ear off, but Alex bore it with a smile.

As if feeling the weight of her stare, his eyes met hers, warming the moment he looked at her. Emmy’s cheeks flushed and she swallowed hard, her body flooding with an answering heat.

“Goodness me,” Lucinda murmured, chuckling softly from beside her. “Every woman should have a husband who looks at her like that.”

Emmy pulled her gaze from Alex, discomfited to realize she’d nearly forgotten Lucinda was there. “Like what?” she asked, embarrassed but equally curious to hear what her friend would say.

“Like he appreciates you greatly, and intends to express his gratitude later on, in private, and in a multitude of ways.”

Lucinda grinned and Emmy’s cheeks flushed anew. Time to change the subject.

“Speaking of husbands, I like yours very much,” she said, meaning it sincerely. “He is an amiable man, and very easy to talk to.”

“He drives me absolutely mad sometimes,” Lucinda replied with a wry smile. “But I do love him, and he’s a wonderful father. We’re lucky to have him.”

“He’s lucky to have you, too, I should think.”

“Oh, he is,” Lucinda agreed without preamble. “And I tell him so often.”

Emmy laughed. She’d met Lucinda’s husband earlier that week, and their sons, as well—two adorable little red-haired cherubs who were obviously adored by their parents. The picture of familial contentment in the Ogilvys’ drawing room had stayed with her these last few days, and she’d imagined a similar scene here at Bristlewood, of her and Alex at play with their own brood of little ones. Even now, the frisson of pleasure that ran through her was a surprise.

Still, she did not dislike it.

Stealing another glance at her husband, she smiled to herself. She had a feeling Alex would be a wonderful father, too.

“How are you doing, Father? Do you need anything?” Alex kept his voice low as he approached his father, who was sitting alone on a sofa by the fire, his gloved hands folded neatly in his lap.

“No, thank you, my boy. I’m fine,” Mr. Whitcomb replied with a small smile.

Alex sat beside him on the sofa, surreptitiously searching his face for signs of discontentment, but finding none. He seemed to be in high spirits tonight, but it was a long time since he’d attended a dinner party, and Alex had worried it might be too much for him.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other.

“I am, as a matter of fact. I forgot how diverting a dinner party can be.” His dark brown eyes twinkled, bringing a smile to Alex’s lips.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I must admit, I was surprised when you agreed to attend.”

“So was I,” his father said with a low chuckle. “But I suppose change can be a good thing. Sometimes .”

Alex chuckled. His father had always been resistant to change, at least for as long as Alex could remember. The sentiment was understandable, considering the last change Mr. Whitcomb had seen—besides Alex’s marriage—was his wife’s desertion. Change wasn’t always so drastic or devastating, but in his father’s mind, change was not to be trusted.

“Tess looks happy,” Mr. Whitcomb said, his gaze on his daughter.

Alex looked at Tess, who was chatting animatedly with her two new friends. “She does, yes.”

“She’s such a good girl, our Tess. I should have considered her needs. I should have asked her if she wanted to know our neighbors.”

The regret in his voice was almost palpable, and Alex worked his jaw. “So should I.”

“But I’m her father , Alex.” His hands slashed through the air. “I should have tried harder to make her happy. I should have realized—” He broke off, a heavy sigh deflating his chest and swallowing up his words.

“You have always done your best,” Alex said, keeping his voice beneath the din. “Tess does not begrudge you.”

“Maybe she should,” was his soft reply.

“Come, Father. You don’t mean that.”

Mr. Whitcomb cleared his throat. “I think I would like another claret, after all. Would you fetch a glass for me?”

Alex gave his father’s shoulder a squeeze. “Of course.”

Rising, he crossed the room toward the sideboard, his father’s words trailing after him. He’d never heard him speak like that before, with self-recrimination. He was a caring man, and he did try his best, but he was not one to discuss his shortcomings. At least, he’d never done so with Alex before.

It had to be Emmy’s doing. Unintentional, yes, but her doing all the same. She’d brought so much change in such a short time, good change. Change that seemed to be leading them down new and rewarding paths.

She was good for them.

But are we good for her?

Alex poured a glass of claret for his father, lingering over the task as he pondered the question.

Was Emmy happy here? Was she happy with him, with his family?

Sometimes he would catch her looking at her wedding ring or playing with it as if she still had not grown used to the feel of it, even though she’d been wearing it for days now.

Did she hate the ring? Did she hate what it represented?

He thought of the things she’d said to him in those first few days of their acquaintance, about how marriage would change her life, how she was afraid it would change her.

Did she still have those fears?

He hoped not.

He had no desire to change her. He liked her just as she was. He’d married her because he’d wanted to share his life with her. Not just any woman. Her .

Would it help if he told her so, or would that only undo what little progress he’d made?

Their picnic the other day had gone even better than he’d hoped, and she seemed genuinely happy to see him whenever he sought her out in the afternoon.

She still hadn’t sought him out, though.

She’d been busy this week, and nervous about tonight, so perhaps that would change with time. He hoped it would.

Turning from the sideboard with the glass of claret clutched in one hand, he passed his gaze over the room in search of his wife. He spotted her standing with Lucinda Ogilvy, looking gorgeous in her cheerful saffron gown, her hands gesturing enthusiastically as she spoke to her friend.

She was an excellent hostess, charming and witty with a friendly nature that made it impossible to dislike her. She’d been a bundle of nerves this morning, certain tonight would be a decisive failure, but even she would have to admit the dinner was a success.

Pride washed over him. Pride and affection and desire.

Frustration, too.

He was a forbearing man, but Emmy was testing his patience, and his restraint. He wanted her to feel what he felt. He wanted her to realize how good it could be between them.

He wanted her heart.

And although he wanted it with uncharacteristic impatience, he was more than ready to work for it, to wait for it, no matter how long it took.