Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Presleys’ roof took two days to fix entirely, but once it had been managed, Owen absorbed the rewarding accomplishment that came from working with his hands.
He had done so less and less since his promotion to captain, and he had missed exhausting his body to the point of sound, undisturbed sleep.
He immediately took to engaging the workmen who had begun the projects Uncle Edward had left unfinished. He trusted them to know his uncle’s vision and to be skilled and reliable. Uncle Edward had chosen them, after all.
It would take some time for the east wing to be completed, but the staircase would be finished soon, the spindles installed, and that side of the house would become far less dangerous.
Aunt Clara, however, had not altered her opinions much in the week since the will had been read.
Owen ceased trying to convince her to remain at Buckley Place and instead poured his focus into keeping her at Primrose End.
The repairs and cleaning had begun for the small cottage, and soon they could move her things over.
Owen was merely glad he had convinced her to accept the cottage.
He faced the mirror in his bedchamber, tying his cravat simply.
Slater had asked if he would like to move into the master’s chamber now that he had inherited, but Owen was more comfortable in the room he always occupied.
It was small, perhaps, but he did not feel as though the house belonged to him.
He would not displace his uncle so soon by taking his space and making it his own.
Especially not when Aunt Clara seemed so opposed to any change.
Once he was fully dressed in his evening clothes and prepared for dinner at the Yardley house, he left his room in search of Aunt Clara and Emma.
His truce with Emma was still a fledgling. But it meant they were friends, so he was permitted to look forward to spending the evening in her company. Their party of three was soon to be meeting in the—
Owen’s steps faltered on the stairs. Emma stood in the entryway with her back to him, her hair drawn up high and simply styled at the crown of her head.
She wore a fitted gown of navy blue that accentuated her waist and fell straight to the floor, curving over her like a seamless glove.
The gown was simple but well fitted, and she looked all the more elegant for it.
She shifted her head, offering a view of her graceful neck and soft pink lips tilting into a smile.
Faint lines fanned from her eyes as she spoke to Aunt Clara.
Even after all these years, Emma took his breath away.
“Sorry I am late,” he said, pulling their conversation to a close. “Is the carriage ready?”
“It is.” Aunt Clara’s eyes sparkled up at him. She wore a gown of lavender with black trim and black lace to signify her half mourning. It was a good color for her complexion, bringing a healthy glow to her cheeks. “You look sharp, Owen. Miss Yardley will not know what to do with herself.”
“I will draw the least notice of this party. Both of you look beautiful.”
Emma kept her head up, but her cheeks flushed.
Slater opened the door for them, and Emma took Mrs. Buckley’s arm, leading her outside without acknowledging the compliment. Owen stepped around them, hurrying to the carriage to offer his hand to assist them each up the step. Aunt Clara took it graciously, but Emma hesitated.
“I will not bite.”
She scowled. “I know.”
But still, she lifted her hem and clutched the edge of the carriage as she climbed inside.
What the devil was that about?
Owen followed them into the carriage. The footman closed the door, and they were shortly off. He looked at his glove, but it was ordinary. Emma’s hand, too, appeared ordinarily outfitted in a simple dinner glove. Why had she refused to touch him?
“Will these friends of yours require us to remain long after dinner?” Aunt Clara asked.
Owen looked up sharply. “Are they not also friends of yours?”
“We’ve had no occasion to run in their circles, Owen. They are a younger set.”
He looked pointedly at Emma, but she looked away.
Aunt Clara caught the interaction, though. “We have mostly kept to the friends we’ve always had. The Yardleys bought Thornbrook Hall shortly after Emma left it, and their father was absent a good deal. We hadn’t any occasion to know them.”
“This is the new family who bought Thornbrook?” Owen’s eyes snapped to Emma, but she watched the window. A boring feat, he imagined, since it was covered by a small curtain. “Is it not difficult for you to return to your home?”
“Time has done much to dull those wounds,” she said.
But Emma’s reticence in joining them that evening came freshly to Owen’s mind. She had wanted Aunt Clara to attend without her. Owen had believed it was because she did not feel it proper to be a dinner guest when she was a companion. Now he realized that was only a small part of her reason.
“That is not an answer,” he said gently.
Emma returned her gaze to the dark curtain over the window. She was seeing something, but it was only visible to her. Whatever the memory was that played in her mind puckered her forehead with a slight frown.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and the groom opened the door and let down the step. Owen slipped out first, taking the position to help out the women. His hand was directly accessible, daring Emma to defy him in front of their hosts’ servants.
She placed her hand within his and squeezed lightly as her foot searched for the step beneath the long skirt of her gown. Owen guided her to the ground, then helped his aunt, his pulse thundering.
Perhaps Emma had the right of it all along.
The way his body reacted to her was as though the last nine years had not happened.
As though she had not rejected him for a baron and torn his heart to pieces.
His thudding heart had not seemed to recall the way it had ached for so long when she had turned him away.
Now, she only managed to make him feel excited again.
Blast it all.
The women were speaking quietly as they walked up to the front door, but Owen would not have heard them had they been directing their conversation to him. He was distracted by the effect a simple touch of the hand had on him and how he could conquer it.
Time away, perhaps.
No, if nine years did nothing, another fortnight would be useless.
The door opened to permit them, and they were welcomed into the entryway as the butler took their shawls and Owen’s coat and hat.
He led them toward the drawing room, where Owen noted a decided lack of conversation.
The entire house, in fact, was quiet. Either the Buckley party had been the first to arrive, or this was not to be the large affair he had imagined.
He watched Emma as they entered the drawing room, but her passive smile gave nothing away. Surely she was broiling beneath the surface to see her home so altered.
Simon Yardley stood with his back to the fireplace, his fist resting against his side in a pose that made him appear powerful and at ease simultaneously.
Perched on the edge of the seat at his elbow was a pretty blonde woman with a vaguely familiar countenance, though she looked very much like her brother, so that could be the reason she tugged at his memory.
Owen didn’t recall interacting with her much in the past. If they had, she did not make an impression that stayed with him.
“Welcome,” Simon said brightly. He put a hand out for his sister, and she took it and rose.
Her smile was soft, her eyes downcast. She appeared the sort of woman who was very much aware of her beauty and knew how to use it to her advantage.
The way she walked to meet them in the center of the room further proved that.
“Thank you for inviting us to your home,” Aunt Clara said.
Simon appeared to wave this sentiment away. “My sister and I enjoy entertaining. Do we not, Sophia?”
“It is a joy, of course,” she answered sweetly. “But I am afraid you are ahead of yourself. No one has introduced me to the captain, yet.”
“Are you not known to one another?” Simon cringed. “Forgive me. A good deal of time has passed since we last had the pleasure of your company in Derbyshire, Captain. Though I will own it was not at this house we did any entertaining. You might recall we lived—”
“Simon.”
“Yes, of course. Captain Buckley, allow me to present my sister, Miss Sophia Yardley.”
He bowed to her, and she dipped in an elegant curtsy, her eyes fastening on him as she rose.
Owen was forced to look away, the heat of her stare making him uncomfortable. Good heavens, she was not subtle.
A knock at the door preceded the butler once again, and he announced the addition of Mr. Lofton. Owen made the mistake of looking at Emma when the newcomer was announced and seeing her eyes light up.
A sharp knife pierced through him. He forced himself to pleasantly join the group and allow them to make proper introductions, learning that Mr. Lofton was a widower who had moved into the house the Yardleys vacated when they bought Thornbrook Hall.
He was a gentleman of some means then, but no great fortune.
To Owen’s great surprise, he appeared older, as well.
At least five-and-thirty, if not nearer to forty years old.
Gray had already begun to seep into his side whiskers and lighten the hair at his temples.
Wrinkles fanned the edges of his eyes and bracketed his mouth.
Surely Emma’s joy at his arrival was merely because he was a friend, and nothing more. This man was too old for her.
“It is an informal affair this evening,” Simon announced. “You may sit where you wish.” He immediately made his way to Aunt Clara’s side and offered his arm, which she accepted with some obvious hesitation.
Left beside Miss Yardley, Owen had no choice but to offer his escort to her. “Would you allow me to take you in to dinner, Miss Yardley?”