Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
So altered as to be almost entirely unrecognizable? Emma must have been speaking of Owen, but he didn’t know why. Yes, he had tanned during his time in India. His hair had lightened. It was devilishly hot. He could not help it. But his personality remained steadfast.
His feelings for Emma, though changed, were still present; that much was entirely clear. He could not see her without noticing the way his heart leaped to his throat.
He wished that was not the case, but he could not argue with his body’s reaction to her. Why he had invited her to dine was an utter mystery to even himself. The words were out of his mouth before he could properly consider them.
Now she was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, calling him a changed man. She was correct.
“Shall I list the ways, or would you like to?” he asked.
“You are being ridiculous again.”
“You are the one who mentioned it.”
Emma took a bite of soup.
Owen waited patiently.
She took another spoonful, smiling around her utensil.
By the time her bowl was empty, his was as well, and he had not said another word.
But watching her had not been a hardship.
She was still the most beautiful creature he’d ever beheld.
He was dying to ask her what had happened all those years ago that led her to becoming his aunt’s companion, the circumstances that had kept her single, but it was not any of his business.
“My skin has darkened. My hair has lightened somewhat,” he supplied to start her off.
“You are more free with your language,” she said. “You used to be somewhat reticent to speak.”
In contrast, Emma was far more reticent than she used to be.
It was true that Owen had gained more confidence.
He was no longer the bumbling young man, smitten by Emma’s wit and beauty, completely fallen under her charm.
Nine years ago, he had been grateful simply to receive her attention.
Now, he knew his worth—for the most part.
His value had been evident in the British army.
He’d proven capable of leading men, of being reliable and sought after. He had even been looked up to by some.
He was confident in the fact that he mattered. But it did not extend to becoming the gentleman farmer of such a grand estate as Buckley Place.
He would find a way to give Aunt Clara her home back.
He’d spoken to Mr. Hobbs when they’d walked to the door, and the solicitor confirmed what Owen feared: the inheritance could not be reversed.
Owen could not simply refuse to accept it.
If he did, it would pass to the next person in line—which was, in fact, Owen—so it was a moot point.
The estate was his. But it could legally be in his name while remaining under Aunt Clara’s control. There would be a way, surely.
“If I recall correctly, you used to hate wine,” Emma said.
Owen looked at her sharply. “That has somewhat changed. I would not choose it, but when offered the drink, I can stomach it now.”
“Why do you not ask for something else? This is your house now, Captain.”
His entire body tensed. “It should not be.”
“We are of one mind there, but the facts remain. You ought to accept matters as they are if we are to proceed. I cannot guide both you and Mrs. Buckley through this situation by the leading strings.”
A deep laugh escaped him. “No, I dare say you shall not. But no one need be led anywhere. Aunt Clara will remain precisely where she is. Nothing has to change.”
Emma’s head tilted to the side the smallest amount. Her wide, round eyes soaked in his face with a thoroughness that had him beginning to squirm. “She is proud, Captain. I will be very surprised if you can do anything more than convince her to take up residence at Primrose End.”
“The cottage at the edge of the property? Does the gardener not live there?”
“No, it is more of a dower house than a workman’s lodge.
Though I do not believe it has been inhabited in some years.
You could perhaps delay her move with the promise to rig it out with updated furniture and manage some much-needed repairs.
” Emma looked at her empty glass, her dark honey brows pulling together.
“I do not think she will find herself comfortable until she is installed as the mistress of an establishment, even a small one.”
“We shall see what she says tomorrow, after she has been able to sleep.”
Emma’s green eyes flicked up. “Of course. This is all speculation.”
Owen would lay odds she had been correct about each of her assumptions that evening.
It was made perfectly clear to him over the previous few days that Emma knew his aunt very well, almost capable of predicting her needs before Aunt Clara could sense them.
She seemed the best of companions, and she did a great service keeping his aunt company here.
The footmen took away their soup and filled the table with the remaining dishes that made up their dinner. Owen ate, chewing his beef as he contemplated what his next steps ought to be.
When his attention fell upon Emma once more, he recognized the immense help she could potentially provide, but his stubborn nature slammed down like a stone wall. He was prideful. Was it wrong of him to want to succeed without her assistance? To show through his actions how little he needed her?
He’d already dismissed her bailiff duties. He couldn’t dismiss her as his aunt’s companion, nor did he wish to. But he could prove that he was capable of seeing to things on his own.
“Perhaps Mrs. Buckley will wish to travel with you to Yorkshire to visit your parents,” Emma suggested, pulling him from the pit of his thoughts.
Had she no notion of the discomfort between them? “I do not think that would be her first choice.”
“To see the brother of her husband?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “How many times have my parents visited Briarstead in my absence?”
Emma blinked. “Never.”
“As I suspected,” Owen continued. “The brothers were not on the friendliest of terms.”
“It could be different for their wives, could it not?”
“Perhaps, but I will not pressure her while she is grieving. She would likely prefer to be surrounded by people who liked Uncle Edward.”
“Then I will not suggest it.” Emma nodded, chewing her bite of potato.
“But I am concerned…she was speaking with Mrs. Wickerton in town today, and afterward was all out of sorts. I’m uncertain what the woman said to put her in a state, but she was asking if I consider Buckley Place my home.
Perhaps we ought to learn what the root of that was in case it has any bearing on where she wants to live. ”
Owen glanced up. “Mrs. Wickerton.” That certainly explained Aunt Clara’s sudden questioning earlier about their past.
“What is it?” Emma sat up. “You know something.”
“She asked me about the state of our past friendship and if it is difficult to be in the same house now.”
“That gossip. Can she not mind her tongue for once?”
Owen chuckled, surprised by the vehemence in Emma’s tone. “It is not exactly a secret.”
“It is best left forgotten, though.”
“Agreed.” He nodded, relaxing into his chair. “I put her at ease, assuring her we could be friends as we once were, that living here together was not a trial for either of us. It would be good if we could both prove that to her.”
Emma lifted her chin, searching his eyes. “Which is why you wanted to share dinner tonight. If the servants report that we were amiable, she will relax.”
“Precisely.”
She lifted her glass and took a sip of wine, then pressed her lips together, drawing his attention to her mouth. Those soft lips which had once bent so pliably beneath his.
“Very well.”
So distracted had he been, Owen didn’t know exactly what Emma had agreed to. All he could think of were the moments they’d shared years ago in the garden outside of this house…at the piano in Thornbrook Hall…in the forest after a ride on that particularly sunny day…
Silence pulled taut between them, the only sounds in the dining room those of forks and knives against their plates.
Owen cut another bite of his dinner and realized, with a start, that had they been married so long ago as he’d once wished, they would likely be eating their dinner in this same situation, together, after receiving the news of his inheritance.
The difference being Emma would be his wife.
He cut too hard, and his knife hit the plate with a loud clink.
He set it down, feeling his heart hammering as Emma watched him with confusion.
It wasn’t good to think of the past. Indeed, it had no bearing on their present situation.
So many years had dulled the consistency with which he’d used to think of her.
Now that she had been thrown into his orbit again, he could think of little else.
That needed to change.
“Tell me of your family,” he said, hoping a new conversation would raise them to more neutral ground. He raised his napkin to his lips.
Emma blinked, her hands raised slightly above her plate, her fork and knife hovering there. “Shortly after you left, both of my parents contracted smallpox.”
Owen lowered his napkin, afraid of the information that came next.
“I was sent to stay here, with the Buckleys, since I had not had the pox before, and it saved my life. Unfortunately, neither of my parents were spared.”
“Emma, I did not know.”
She shook her head slightly, looking at the table. “It was a long time ago.”
The way she came to be in this house was only half answered, for that did not explain why she was not presently married to Lord Gifford.
“But enough about me. Would you care to tell me of your time in India? I admit I am curious to hear what you liked about it.”