Chapter Twenty-Four
Dressed now in a dry set of clothes, Alex strode into the library and headed straight for the sideboard where he poured himself a generous glass of brandy.
He crossed to the hearth and sank onto an armchair with a weary sigh before drinking deep from his glass, the warmth from the fire—and the brandy—washing over him like a balm.
Thank God he is unharmed .
The words resounded through his mind for the hundredth time, and again his chest grew tight at the thought of what might have happened today. Of how close he might have come to losing his father.
The image assailed his brain once again: the lake, the boat, his father inside, barely conscious and soaked to the bone.
Alex shut his eyes and thrust the image from his mind, trying to focus instead on his immense relief that it was over, that his father was unharmed, warm and safe in his bed. Gratitude welled within him, bringing with it the sting of tears.
The doctor had said he should be good as new by the end of the week, so long as he stayed warm and rested well. Of course, that was before his father had learned of Emmy’s return to Bristlewood, and judging by the look of joy on his face when he’d heard the news, Alex wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he was up and out of bed tomorrow.
Assuming she stayed, of course.
He didn’t even know why she’d come back, so it seemed rather pointless to try to predict what she would do next. Or when.
Draining the last of his brandy, he let his head fall back against the chair and rubbed his tired eyes. God, he was exhausted. Bed was sounding better by the moment, but he knew Emmy wished to speak with him tonight. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he should permit it.
It had been a long, trying day, and he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment. It would probably be best to delay the conversation until tomorrow, after he’d had a decent night’s sleep and would be better able—and better prepared—to navigate a conversation with his wife.
Then, of course, there was the added benefit of making Emmy wait, which was something she loathed down to her marrow. The idea of tormenting her was not entirely unattractive to him. After all, didn’t she deserve a little misery?
He stared into the fire and watched the flames flicker and dance. Then he sighed. Maybe she did deserve it, and maybe if he were a more vindictive man, he would want to see her suffer, but he wasn’t. And he didn’t.
He was frustrated with her, yes, and he was hurt, but he was not hateful. And even though he was spent after this terribly trying day, he wanted to know why she’d returned even more than he wanted his bed.
“Alex?”
He stiffened at the sound of Emmy’s voice, his hand gripping the empty glass sitting on his knee. “I’m here,” he called out, not rising from his chair.
The room was silent, but he knew she was there—he could feel her. And then he saw her, from the corner of his eye, stealing into his space, into the fire’s heat, where she halted beside his chair.
“Your father is sleeping,” she said quietly, her fingers curling into her gown. “I believe he is quite comfortable.”
Alex gave a stiff nod, his gaze on the fire, though he could feel her watching him. “Good.”
A restive silence followed and then Emmy moved to the empty chair beside his, sitting with her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you for letting me see him, Alex.”
Her voice was soft, almost meek, and he surged to his feet, an illogical flash of irritation sending him to the sideboard again. The display of gratitude grated his nerves, and he poured his second glass of brandy with considerably less grace, splashing a bit onto his hand.
Had she seriously believed he might forbid her to see his father? Was that what she thought of him?
“I aim to please,” he said with forced mildness before sipping the brandy from his hand.
“Alex…” She trailed off, obviously out of her element. A rarity for the ever-confident Emmy. “Alex, I—I am so sorry. You have every right to be angry with me. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t left, your father wouldn’t have—”
“ Stop .” He bit the word out, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
He sighed and set his glass on the sideboard then he turned to face his wife. She was standing now, watching him with wary eyes, her posture stiff, her hands unnaturally still at her sides.
God, he hated to see her unhappy.
“It wasn’t your fault, Emmy,” he said gruffly. “You didn’t know. And it was so long ago, the last time my father went out onto the lake…” He shook his head. “It was so long ago, I forgot all about it.”
He raked a hand through his still-damp hair as a pang of conscience shot through him at what had nearly happened today. At what he might have lost.
“You mustn’t blame yourself, either,” Emmy said, taking a step toward him, and then another. “You found him, Alex. He’s going to be fine because of you.”
He nodded, taking comfort in her words, though he did not trust himself to speak. He drifted back to the fire, and leaned a shoulder against the cool stone hearth, waiting for Emmy to talk to him, to explain her presence here.
But she did not speak again, and the silence dragged on, excruciating, maddening, until finally, he could stand it no longer.
“Why are you here, Emmy?” he asked softly. “Why did you come back today?”
His questions were met with another silence, and Alex turned from the fire to face her, demanding she answer him. Demanding she answer for herself.
An unconvincing smile curved her lips, and her dimples winked as she shrugged. “I had to come back, didn’t I? To thank you for this beautiful ring.”
She held her hand out and fluttered her fingers, though Alex’s gaze never left her face. He studied her for a long moment, waiting for her to say more, to be serious, but again she denied him.
“You could have thanked me in a letter,” he said. “Saved yourself the travel.”
Her arm dropped to her side and her gave fell from his, her smile fading.
“Then again, you could have sold the ring and run away to Spain instead,” he said with a humorless half-smile. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but frustration apparently had addled his senses.
“No.” She gave a little shake of her head. “No, I couldn’t have done that.”
“Couldn’t you? I hear Spain is lovely this time of year.” He tried for a cavalier tone of voice but couldn’t quite manage it around the tightness in his throat.
“I’m sure it is,” she said softly, moving closer, her eyes on his, glinting like silver in the firelight. “But you’re not in Spain, Alex. You’re here. And I want to be where you are, wherever that might be.”
Standing before her husband, heart thudding, trembling hands clasped behind her back, Emmy had never felt more vulnerable than she did in this moment.
She awaited his reply in the agonizing silence, willing him to believe her, to forgive her folly and take her in his arms.
Instead, he crossed them over his chest and regarded her with cool hazel eyes as he said, “And yet, it was only yesterday you wanted to be anywhere but here with me.”
She grimaced, her gaze falling to her shoes. “I know. I was…upset. When Olivia said we looked like a couple in love, I just—” She broke off with a shake of her head. “It unsettled me, and I panicked.”
The trepidation she’d felt, the fear , when Olivia had said those words was so potent, all she could do was give in to it. Oh, how she regretted that moment of weakness now.
“Why?” Alex asked, drawing her gaze to his. “Why did that unsettle you so much?”
“Because I was afraid,” she said simply, though it was anything but simple. “I was afraid of love, afraid it would consume me, that it would somehow make me different, diluted. Less .” She lifted a shoulder, a sheepish gesture. “I don’t want to be less.”
He nodded slowly, and his eyes seemed to soften with understanding. “I don’t want that, either,” he said. “Believe it or not, I like you just as you are.”
She smiled, even as her heart gave a little flip. “I realized that when I read these words,” she said, stroking the gold band on her finger. “This inscription—it opened my eyes, Alex. It made me realize how foolish I was to doubt you. How silly it was to be afraid.”
She moved toward him, closing the distance until she could reach out and take his hands in hers. “You are the kindest man I have ever known,” she said, and though her stomach was a tangle of nerves, her voice was clear and strong.
“You are thoughtful and generous, and you think of everyone else before yourself. And those are just a few of the reasons why I am so lucky to call you my husband, and why I love you so much.” She drew in a shuddering breath as she gazed into his eyes. “I love you, Alex. I adore you, in fact, and I hope you can forgive me for hurting you. I hope—”
He kissed her, stealing her words, her breath, and Emmy flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all the relief and gratitude and love and joy within her.
Moments later, Alex gently eased away, his gaze sweeping over her face as he gathered her hands in his, stroking his thumbs across her knuckles.
“I’m glad my gift pleased you,” he said, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her new ring. “I bought it for you so you wouldn’t have to wear the Whitcomb ring. I know how you dislike it.”
“But I don’t,” she replied, gazing down at her right hand and the yellow topaz she had once resented. “I did before, but it is a part of who I am now. I am Emmy and I am Mrs. Whitcomb. I can be both.” She looked at him. “I’m proud to be both.”
His eyes warmed, and he cupped her cheek with his palm. “You frightened me, you know. I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”
She nodded, her guilt a heavy rock in her belly. “Yet you let me go anyway.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“I know. But you let me go all the same.” She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “A woman could do a lot worse than you for a husband, Alex Whitcomb.”
He raised a brow, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you try to run away.”
She shook her head. “There won’t be a next time.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “I love Bristlewood. I love your father and Tess and Prescott and Gracie. And most of all, I love you.”
He kissed her, as if wanting to taste the words on her lips and then he pressed his forehead to hers. “I was afraid you never would,” he said, his voice a husky rasp. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let yourself.”
“I didn’t want to,” she whispered, echoing his earlier words, and this earned her another smile.
Oh, how she adored his smile. She would do everything in her power to keep it there for the rest of her days.
“I know you didn’t,” he whispered back. “But I’m glad you did.”
“So am I.” She looped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his chin. “I tried so hard to guard my heart, but you stole it anyway. You are impossible to resist, it seems.”
“I love you, Emmy.”
“I love you, too—with all my heart. With all that I am.”
And she meant it. No more boundaries, no more restrictions. She was Emmy—marquess’s daughter, unrepentant busybody, reader of gossip rags.
She was Lady Emmaline, and she was Mrs. Whitcomb. She was a sister, a friend, a daughter, a wife.
She used to think she could never have everything her heart desired, but she was wrong. She could, and she would.
They both would.
She’d make sure of it.