Chapter 15 #2
But Frederick was already launching himself toward her like a tiny, muddy cannonball.
Emily shrieked, gathered her skirts, and bolted.
She ran toward the line of willow trees, her laughter echoing off the stone walls of the estate.
She could hear the heavy thud of Theodore’s boots behind her and the frantic patter of Frederick’s feet.
She really did not like the idea of getting covered in mud.
“This is not fair!” she called back at them, trying to make her way out of the garden through one of the other gates.
“Frederick,” Theodore said from somewhere behind her. “She is heading for the gate.”
Frederick changed direction.
Emily changed direction, too, but she made it approximately four more steps before Theodore caught her.
His arms came around her from behind, both of them, wrapping around her waist and lifting her slightly off the ground.
She felt the mud from his coat transfer to her dress, instantly ruining the delicate fabric.
She groaned, but even as she protested, she found herself clutching at his arms, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Theodore!” she called his name breathlessly, half annoyed, half amused.
“Hold still,” he said. “What use is it to wiggle? Do you think you can pry yourself away from me?”
“I am absolutely not going to hold still,” she argued.
Frederick arrived and got both hands on her skirt. The mud was everywhere now, and she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
“There...” Theodore whispered, seeing no need to shout as she was wrapped closely in his arms. “...right where you’re supposed to be.”
“There’s Mr. Harrison,” Frederick noted, pointing at the gate. “Is he not too clean, Your Grace?”
“He is,” Theodore answered. “He is all yours, Frederick.”
“I’m coming!” Frederick shouted, charging toward the poor man with muddy hands outstretched.
“You are terrible,” she told Theodore as he slowly lowered her, so her feet touched the ground. “Both of you. You are both completely terrible.”
“You are muddy,” Theodore said, and she could hear the smile in his voice, right beside her ear, warm and close. “It suits you.”
“It does not suit me,” she said.
“It absolutely suits you.”
He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted behind her, his arms sliding fully around her waist as they both watched Frederick attempt to corner Harrison. Slowly, Theodore drew her back against his chest in a grounding embrace. Emily went still, her heart hammering so loudly against her ribs she was certain he could feel the rhythm of it through his own coat. She was watching Frederick play, yet at the same time, she could not see him. She wasn’t concentrating on anything other than the strange intimacy of that very moment.
An intimacy she had convinced herself that Theodore was not doing intentionally.
Her hands remained on his forearms, her fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of his sleeves. The tension between them was a living thing, thick and electric, making the very air feel heavy. She didn't know the protocol for this. She had no idea what to do.
But she understood, in the part of her mind that was still functioning in a reasonable and practical capacity, that two people standing in a garden like this, pressed together with nobody paying them any attention, was not a situation that resolved itself.
One of them was supposed to do something.
Step away. Say something light and inconsequential that gave them both permission to simply move on.
Confused by the sudden intimacy, she squeezed his arm gently, a small, tentative pressure meant to remind him that he was still holding her... it was a silent suggestion to let go.
But Theodore didn't let go. Instead, he let his head drop, his chin grazing the curve of her jaw as he nuzzled into the sensitive hollow where her neck met her shoulder. Emily’s breath hitched, a sharp, liquid tingle racing down her spine that made her knees feel dangerously weak.
She could feel the soft friction of his hair against her skin, the warmth of his steady breathing as he finally rested his forehead against her shoulder.
He was heavy, warm, and entirely real, and he sighed, a long, slow exhale, into the curve of her shoulder that she felt travel through her from the point of contact down.
“I never would have imagined,” he admitted, his voice low and slightly muffled against her shoulder, “That a six-year-old boy could tire me out like that. I feel as though I’ve just survived a cavalry charge.”
Emily tried to find her voice, clearing her throat to ground herself. “Well... little boys are usually full of energy, Your Grace. It is their primary function.”
He simply sighed again, the warm air ghosting over her skin and sending a fresh wave of heat through her. The closeness was becoming unbearable, too honest, too real, and Emily knew she had to break the spell before she completely lost her resolve.
She began to turn within the circle of his arms, expecting the pressure at her waist to fall away as she moved.
But as she rotated to face him, his hands remained locked in place, sliding over the ruined silk of her waist to keep her held fast. She found herself pressed flush against him, her chest rising and falling against his, their bodies touching from shoulder to knee.
She looked up, her mouth opening to offer some witty retort, some bit of banter to save them both, but the words died in her throat. Theodore was looking down at her with an intensity that stripped away every defense she possessed.
“You called me by my name,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers. “I was beginning to think you were being so formal to annoy me.”
Emily felt the heat of a blush flare across her cheeks, a deep, undeniable crimson. She bit her lip and looked down, suddenly fascinated by the mud on his cravat, feeling exposed.
Theodore didn't allow her to hide. He reached up, his fingers covered in mud as he caught her chin, tilting her face upward until she was forced to meet his gaze once more.
“Theodore,” he repeated, his thumb grazing her jaw. “Say it again.”
“I will do no such thing,” she breathed, trying to still herself.
“Why not?”
“Because you are being ridiculous,” she answered. “And smug. You are being ridiculously smug.”
She expected him to laugh or to offer a biting retort about her vanity. But his gaze didn't change. It darkened, focusing on her mouth. The intensity of it made her entire body thrum.
“You are infuriating,” she said and shut her eyes. “Do you know that? You are genuinely, thoroughly infuriating, and I cannot imagine how anyone survives extended conversation with you without —”
“Emily,” he said.
“What?” she retorted.
“Your cheeks are flushed,” he said, but he still did not smile. He still was not teasing. He was entirely serious.
She felt her face go approximately ten degrees warmer.
“I am not,” she said.
“You are,” he said pleasantly. “Quite considerably. It is very becoming.”
She looked at his mouth.
She had not meant to. It was entirely involuntary, the way her eyes moved there, and she was aware of it happening but could not seem to stop it.
His mouth, which she had watched say a hundred infuriating things, which curved so easily into that particular smile of his, which was currently doing nothing at all except existing at a distance she could measure in inches.
A maddening, illogical curiosity seized her, that she wanted to know what it felt like.
An absurd craving to know if his lips would taste of the cool afternoon air or the heat of the fire that seemed to burn behind her ribs.
She found herself wondering if that firm line would give way beneath her own, or if the pressure of him would be as unrelenting as his will.
She drew in a shuddery breath as panic flared in her chest, not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid of how much she wanted it.
Theodore seemed to sense the exact moment her breathing changed, the exact second her pulse turned. He went still, his fingers lingering on her jaw for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he abruptly let her go.
The sudden cold where his hands had been made her shiver.
He stepped back and looked at her, just once, with an expression she could not read, and then he looked at her dress, at the mud along the hem and the sleeve, and something in his face settled into the practical, easy gaze.
“I will send for the modiste,” he said. “This week. Whatever you need. As many gowns as you like.”
Emily blinked. “That is not necessary.”
“It is,” he answered and forced a smile. “Frederick, I think you’ve tormented Harrison enough for today. Should we go back and finish the game?”
Emily remained rooted to the spot as Theodore and Frederick continued to play, her fingers clutching the damp, stained silk of her skirts.
The silence of the garden rushed back in to fill the space he had occupied, but the peace she usually found here was gone.
Instead, her mind was a frantic hive of activity.
A sharp spike of frustration flared in her chest. She had wanted to peel back his layers, but he had somehow managed to expose hers instead.
What was that look? Why had he held her long after the game had ended?
The order she craved felt further away than ever.
As she watched the man and the boy disappear through the stone archway, she realized with a sinking heart that she had returned to the very beginning.
She was left with more questions than she had started with, and the most maddening one of all was why, despite the ruined silk and the lingering confusion, she found herself wishing he hadn't let go.