Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“That was entirely out of line.” Owen slashed a hand through his hair, discarding his hat on the sofa as he passed it. Catherine lowered herself into the chair opposite, sitting beside Father and reaching across the distance to take his hand as if presenting a united front.
“Watch your tone,” Father said.
“You were not there.” Owen seethed. The very gall of his mother to speak those words. To speak for him. He could not decide which he appreciated less.
“Indeed,” Catherine said with feeling. “I’ve never been more mortified in my life. Mrs. Cooper was all that is good and kind, but she would not commit to attend our ball without confirmation that the rumors about Owen and Miss Darling were baseless.”
Owen paced behind the sofa, his legs antsy and his body full of restless energy.
He’d been caught off guard by the question, unable to answer it with satisfaction.
Of course Emma had not put herself in his path in the hopes of snagging a husband.
Of course they did not have an understanding between them.
But Mrs. Cooper had pummeled him with accusations swathed in drawing room inquiries, and he did not defend Emma as he ought. His astonishment had been too great.
“Luckily I was able to convince Mrs. Cooper that, whatever the Darling woman might feel, Owen is searching for a young woman of proper breeding and decorum.”
He inhaled through his nose, seeking patience.
“But Lady Gifford!” Catherine retrieved her hand and covered her eyes.
“The woman seemed to care for nothing but gathering information about the secret love affair at Buckley Place! Evidently, she has a vested interest since her husband was once engaged to Miss Darling and has always felt that the woman could not be trusted.”
Owen swung around and looked directly at his parents. “We will take Aunt Clara’s character recommendations before those of a jealous baron’s wife whom we do not know.”
“Perhaps Clara is too close. She may not see what is hiding directly in front of her.”
“You are being unfair,” Owen said.
“If you do not want the whole of Derbyshire to believe you are being taken for a fool, you ought to keep your distance from this woman.” Father released a world-weary sigh.
“It sounds as though rumors are already being spread about. If you respect her as much as you appear to, distance will only serve to restore her reputation as well. She will never marry, not if she is a companion. You want a wife, do you not?”
Those were points he had not yet considered.
Owen pushed aside the drapes farther and looked out over the Italian garden and the workers spread over the land, bringing it back to life after more than a year of being dirt mounds and empty beds.
Men moved about, carrying urns and planting seeds, creating a beautiful space for him to enjoy.
But what was the point? What did any of this matter if he was going to be alone?
He wanted a wife, children, a family. And if Owen was honest, when he imagined a future in this house, the person who appeared at his side was Emma.
Emma, palm resting on her rounded belly, walking the finished garden on a sunny summer day and stopping to sit on the new bench beneath a shady tree.
Emma, holding the hand of a little girl just learning to take her steps down the long gallery, pointing out each portrait and explaining its significance in a way that would make sense to one so young.
Emma, down in the kitchens, filling her basket with leftover buns and carrying them to the tenants to sweeten their day for no reason other than kindness and a desire to avoid waste.
Emma, holding his hand as they walked across the lawn to visit Aunt Clara because each of them loved her deeply and truly.
Owen closed his eyes against the future he yearned for so keenly that his body ached for her.
Not once since his return had she provided a sign that she would welcome any advance from him, that she wanted Owen the way he wanted her.
Each step of progress they had made toward friendship was something he had asked for.
The truce, the partnership…those were his ideas.
Emma had been willing, but she would do anything for Mrs. Buckley. It was her job.
“Some distance would be good for both of you,” Catherine said soothingly from behind him, her unwelcome voice penetrating his thoughts. “Perhaps it will give you some time to court some of the local women and decide what you truly want.”
Would that help? Use other women to push her from his heart? If he could develop feelings for someone else, perhaps. If nine years had not eradicated Emma, then a couple of country misses were surely not going to do anything.
He could certainly give it a try, though.
“Very well.” Owen returned to the sofa and picked up his hat. What he needed now more than anything was a bruising ride. “I’m going out.”
Emma had immediately thrown herself into the project of creating Mrs. Buckley’s ball gown when she returned from Briarstead.
The fabric and trimmings had been approved, so the women set about looking through their Ackermann’s books for a style that would both suit Mrs. Buckley and fall within Emma’s capabilities.
She had always been good with a needle, but since becoming a companion and necessity forced her to learn, she had grown that skill until she became excellent.
The trouble was, she was slow. This gown would take her an entire fortnight, but it would be beautiful.
“You are certain you don’t wish to hire the modiste in town?” Emma asked again, seated at the dining room table with the books strewn about them. “You will have the dress finished much faster.”
“But it won’t be exactly what I want. You know how she adds her own touches, Emma. I want you to make it because you know exactly how I like things.”
“So long as you accept the time it will take me away from you.”
Mrs. Buckley turned a page and admired another ball gown. “Have you considered, since we came to Primrose End, that I might need more things to occupy me now that I do not have a large estate? I am finding myself with far more idle time on my hands. I imagine the same is true for you.”
“In some ways, perhaps, but in many ways, nothing has changed.”
Mrs. Buckley pushed the book closer. “This one.”
Emma admired it. The gown fell in a gentle sweep to simple ruching at the hem and rosettes on the sleeves. “It is elegant.”
“Can you do it?”
“Yes. I’m confident I can.” She pulled it closer and looked at the details. “I spoke with Mrs. Wickerton and Mrs. Rowley in the milliner’s shop when I was there today. They feel they’ve neglected you and intend to bring you a cake soon to welcome you to your new home.”
“I had wondered why I wasn’t receiving any visitors, but I assumed no one wished to bring attention to my move in station.”
“You cannot truly believe your station has changed.”
Mrs. Buckley considered this. “Perhaps not. A dower house is respectable. But losing my entire fortune has been something of a shock. I will own to having more compassion for what you must have endured after your parents died and you lost so much, Emma. It is a good deal to suffer through.”
A surge of affection for this woman swept through Emma. “It was difficult, but you and Mr. Buckley were kind to me, and that was a salve.”
“We ought to have done more.”
“There was nothing more you could have done.” Emma traced the hem of the gown on the page.
She needed to inform Mrs. Buckley of the other things she had learned in town today, if only so she was aware.
It was going to be told to her eventually, and it was better coming from Emma.
Why was it so difficult to find the words?
“While I was there, I learned other things that you ought to know.”
The door opened. Platt stepped inside, one hand resting on the knob while the other was behind his back. “You’ve a visitor, ma’am. Captain Buckley.”
“Drat his timing.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Buckley said quietly. “You said that aloud.”
She snapped her mouth closed. “We should resume this later. I will put these away and begin tracing a pattern.”
“Wouldn’t you like to visit—”
“No, I do not think so.” Emma stacked the books in her arms, the humiliation from their interlude in the lane with his mother still fresh in her mind.
She hurried around the table, her heart quickening.
When she slipped past Platt, who remained holding the door, she collided immediately with Owen as he entered the room.
The books flew, clattering against the wall in the corridor.
Her foot caught on the hem of her gown, and she lunged forward.
Owen’s firm hands caught her, hauling her up against his chest. She felt the racing of his heart beneath his cravat, matching the rhythm of her own. Her palm pressed flat against his soft, warm coat. She couldn’t help inhaling his familiar scent—the leather and soap he used.
Her eyes dragged up to his face and stalled on his gaze, pinned as it was to her lips. A hot flush spread through her entire body.
“Thank you,” Emma croaked. She pushed away gently, avoiding his eyes, and crouched to gather the books on the carpet. Platt had disappeared, shutting the door and casting them in dimness. “I should have watched where I was walking.”
“That was not your fault.” Owen picked up one book and stood, reading the cover. “I had not bothered to ensure the way was clear.”
Emma smoothed her skirts, the books now stacked in her arms, and faced him, waiting for her final volume of Ackermann’s Repository to be returned to her.
Owen continued to look at the cover. If he was searching for the words to discuss what had occurred earlier in the lane, he needn’t bother.
Emma did not hold him accountable for his mother’s concern.
It was the last thing she wanted to discuss.
Especially while she could still feel the heat from her body pressed against his. Her breath was coming in shallow spurts, and she needed to be alone in order to pull herself together.
“You may keep that if you’d like.”
Owen turned it over and looked at the back.
“I don’t think I need to.” He flipped it open and glanced through the pages.
As he spoke, his gaze remained on the book.
“There is a matter of business I’ve needed to take care of since returning to England, but I’ve put it off.
I think it is a good time for me to go, however, and it will take me away for at least a week. ”
Emma’s feet were planted in place.
“Will you look after things while I am gone?” he asked.
“Did you not hire a bailiff? Mrs. Presley mentioned he is an efficient man.”
The corner of Owen’s mouth twitched in amusement, and his eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Of course she has. Why am I not surprised that you would know the state of my tenant’s opinions about the new bailiff before I do?”
“If you mean to embarrass me, it won’t do. I am not ashamed of my relationship with the Presleys. They are good people.”
“Neither should you be.” He ran his fingers over his smooth jaw, bringing her attention to his lips.
“The music room is nearly finished. I had hoped to show you before…well, I understand if you’d prefer to wait until I return to look at it.
I’d like for Aunt Clara to wait until I’ve returned as well.
There are a few things Wick needs to do first, and then it shall be complete. But we are nearly there.”
“You’d like me to keep Mrs. Buckley from the big house?”
“No…I suppose that wouldn’t do, either. But the less time she spends there, the better.”
“She likely feels the same way.”
Owen nodded, glancing over Emma’s head at something down the corridor.
He gripped the book in both hands, his fingers splayed over the back, much as they’d pressed against her.
Emma would not soon recover from that moment.
It was unfair to know a flash of being in his arms when she could never have it again.
She put her hand out, palm up. “If you do not plan to read it, I have things to see to.”
Owen stared at her hand. Instead of placing the book in it, he took her hand in his own.
She realized he was not wearing a glove.
Emma drew in a quick, quiet gasp that forced him to look into her eyes.
His thumb brushed over the soft pad of her thumb.
“You have always had such dainty hands, and yet they wield such strength.”
With each pass of his thumb over hers, she grew weaker.
“I cannot help what they are saying about us in the village, Emma,” he whispered, the air around them still and frozen. “But I assure you, I will not allow any further harm to come to your reputation. You have my word.”
Blood pulsed in her ears, forcing her to question whether she had heard him correctly. He placed the book in her hand and dipped his head in a semblance of farewell, then stepped back to allow her to pass.
Emma did not recall the quick journey up to her bedchamber, so lost in her thoughts she had been. She closed the door behind her and set the books in a stack on the dressing table, then sat on her trunk and dropped her face into her hands. Owen’s words ran through her mind repeatedly.
I will not allow any further harm to come to your reputation. You have my word.
There was only one way he could do that, and it was to remain far away from her. The matter of business taking him away must have had to do with his school for boys. He was going to purchase a building, and it would take him away for good.
Profound loss yawned in her stomach like a wide, aching cavern.
She knelt on the floor and lifted the lid of the trunk, pushing everything aside until she reached the small stack of papers at the bottom.
Nestled within was the portrait she had painted in her youth—the one Owen had agreed to sit for.
Emma lifted it out and held it up, looking into the face she had fallen in love with all those years ago. His skin was paler, hair was darker, cheeks a little rounder, but most of the rest was the same. His easy smile. The glimmer of affection in his eyes. Those things had not changed.
Oh, what a hearty fool she had been.