Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Emma had felt unmoored since Mrs. Buckley’s blunt directives earlier that evening. The slight matchmaking scheme was so out of character that, the further Emma thought on the conversation, the more troubling it felt.
If Mrs. Buckley had been paying close enough attention to see the connection between Emma and Mr. Lofton, had she also noticed Emma’s feelings for Owen?
Noticed the way Emma perked up each time he was mentioned?
The way Emma watched him when he was in the room?
If so, was she directing Emma toward Mr. Lofton as a way to keep her away from Owen?
Mrs. Buckley loved him as a son. Surely she would wish that he made a better match.
It would not be entirely out of line for her to agree with Catharine Buckley on that score and do what she could to separate them, to steer Emma away.
Indeed, Emma would need to work harder to conceal her feelings once he returned from his trip…
if he chose to return. Perhaps the moment they had shared in the corridor had frightened him away.
He had promised to protect her reputation, after all.
The best way to do that would be to stay away from her.
She sat at the dressing table in the corner of her room and let down her hair, stacking the pins in a neat pile.
Thick honey-colored waves fell over her shoulders.
She dragged them all to one side and began to brush them out.
During his absence, women eager to court Owen had been seen visiting his parents at the house.
The reports of young, eligible women coming to call ignited a flame of jealousy within her. She was being childish.
Emma focused on braiding her hair into one long plait. She tied a ribbon at the end as a knock came at her door. She had not yet changed out of her dinner gown, so she turned on the seat, working the ribbon with her cold fingers. “You may enter.”
The door creaked open. Mrs. Bates slipped inside. “Mrs. Buckley is in a bit of a state. I looked for the lavender tincture, but cannot find it. Did you happen to bring it in here?”
“No.” Emma rose, crossing to her trunk. “I’ll look anyway, though. What has happened?”
There was a brief pause before Mrs. Bates said, “She will not confide in me. I have my own assumptions, but they are better left private.”
“I understand.” Emma searched her trunk, then the drawers of the dressing table in case one of the servants put it away in the wrong place. She looked in every place the small bottle could possibly be, which amounted to few in her chamber. “It isn’t here. Did you search her room?”
“Yes. Thoroughly.”
“I suppose it must have been left at the big house.” Emma glanced over her shoulder, toward the window. “We have not used it since moving. If I leave now, I can return within half an hour. Do you think that is soon enough to be of good use?”
“It is late.” Mrs. Bates worried her lip. “We ought to send Platt.”
“He will not know what to look for, and he certainly isn’t as familiar with Mrs. Buckley’s room as I am. The moon is out, Mrs. Bates. I shan’t even need a lantern.”
“I’m not sure I like it.”
“Do what you can to soothe Mrs. Buckley, and I will return as soon as I can. The tincture will do nothing more than soothe her mind at present anyway, but I should think a little in her tea will help her sleep.”
“If you insist.”
“I do. It is fortuitous that I lingered over my own routine this evening.”
Mrs. Bates shook her head slightly. “Be careful.”
“What harm could befall me between here and Buckley Place? There is nothing but a large sweeping lawn, and we are safely within the bounds of Buckley land. I have made this walk countless times. I feel entirely safe.”
“I still do not like it.”
Emma chuckled, sliding her arms into her pelisse and pulling her braid free. “I appreciate your concern. You’d best return to Mrs. Buckley. I will see you soon.”
Once her half boots were secured and her pelisse buttoned, Emma let herself quietly from Primrose End and started across the lawn.
Moonlight shone over the grass, lighting the stone of Buckley Place like a dim beacon in the distance.
Cold air seeped up her sleeves and wrapped around her neck, turning her nose chilly despite the way she increased her speed.
Silence was thick while the earth slept.
The woods circling the perimeter of the drive were dark, the animals asleep.
Most of the windows of Buckley Place were black.
By the time Emma reached the door, it occurred to her that she did not have a key, and it was more than likely locked.
When she tried the door, she found that to be the case.
“Drat,” she muttered under her breath. Knocking could wake the household, and she did not believe Mrs. Buckley would appreciate her fit of nerves to be bandied about the house as though it were a state of emergency.
Emma chewed on her lip as she climbed down the stairs. The servants’ entrance would likely be locked as well, but it was also more likely to still have people about. It was a wide door, but shorter than the massive one in the front of the house, and when Emma gave a tug, it did not budge.
“Is anyone there?” she called, knocking on the rough wood and hoping a maid was still in the kitchen. The air was still, with no sign of another soul to shift the feeling around her. She knew she was utterly alone. Her fist hit the door one more time. “Anyone?”
“Emma?”
She looked up. Through the open window two floors above, Owen leaned over the stone sill, his face unreadable in the shadows. Her heart jumped at the sight of him. When had he returned? “Yes.”
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing. Only—your aunt is in need of a tincture we cannot locate. I believe it must have been left in her room here.” Her shoulders came up in the barest hint of a shrug. “I know it is late, but I hoped to look for it.”
“Of course. You ought to have let yourself in. Do you not have a key?”
She blushed, glad for the darkness. “If Mrs. Buckley does, I did not think to ask for it.”
The shadows cast over his face combined with the distance made his expression an utter mystery. “Wait there. I will be down directly.”
He was gone before Emma could thank him.
She stepped away from the door and waited.
Before long, the iron lock scraped, and the door swung open.
Owen stood inside, his chest moving rapidly as though he’d hurried.
He’d shed his coat and cravat, wearing only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat over fawn pantaloons.
He looked decidedly undone, his shirt falling open to reveal the long column of his neck and the shadowed hollow there, his cuffs loose at his wrists.
Emma watched his throat shift as he swallowed.
“Come inside,” he rasped. “It’s devilish cold out.”
She hurried in. Owen closed the door behind her, throwing them into darkness. Why did he not have a candle?
“The sconces in the corridor are lit,” he said, as though he had the same thought. “We need only make it to the stairs.”
Moonlight came in through one kitchen window, casting enough brightness to see the stairwell.
Emma led the way, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart.
She was always attracted to Owen. It was the plight of one who had fallen in love with a man at a tender age…
she would always find him attractive. But this version of Owen?
Slightly disheveled and a little distracted?
It was not merely attractive. He was devastatingly appealing.
“I need to search Mrs. Buckley’s old bedchamber, I believe. You are not familiar with her lavender tincture, are you?”
“Only in name.” He gestured for her to precede him up the dark stairs.
Emma climbed them, more familiar with this home than with the house she grew up in. This house had been her home for the last decade, and she knew it well. In fact, she was so familiar with it, she knew precisely where Owen had been when he looked down at her—the new music room.
“Will you describe it for me?” he asked.
She was momentarily caught off guard before she recalled what they had been speaking about.
“The bottle? It is small and clear. A white label is affixed to the front in the apothecary’s hand, leaving no room for guessing what is inside.
It has a cork stopper, and if you remove it, there is no room for guessing either. It has an incredibly strong odor.”
“I will help you look,” he murmured, his deep voice just behind her.
“Thank you.”
“My mother had moved into this chamber while I was away, but she…she chose another room this afternoon. I’m not certain how much longer she and my father will choose to remain here after the ball.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It is a good thing.”
They reached Mrs. Buckley’s bedchamber and stepped into the empty room. Somewhere along the way, Owen had picked up a brass holder bearing three lit candles. He carried it close behind, following Emma as she turned in a slow circle and lighting the way for her.
“It is so empty now.”
“Aunt Clara left far more than I expected her to,” Owen said. His voice was low, mindful of the hour. “I’m not certain you’ll find it in here, Emma.”
“Neither am I.” She exhaled. It was difficult being so near him with the house so still. She was mindful of the position they were in, alone in a bedchamber at night. It was time to hurry her errand along. “I’ll start with the desk.”
Owen followed, lifting the candles to hold over her as she pulled open drawers and looked in empty spaces. “Does Aunt Clara have a writing desk in her new room?”
“No, but she doesn’t have the space for it. Her new bedchamber is smaller than this one, if you’ll recall.”
“Yes.” He followed her around the room as she checked each place it could possibly be.
When the wardrobe and small trunk beneath the bed were both empty, Emma straightened, frowning. “It is not here.”
“Could it be elsewhere? The kitchen, perhaps?”
“It might have been left with the tea things. It is worth looking, at least.”
“Lead the way.”
Emma sighed quietly. “You do not need to walk with me. I am perfectly capable of searching.”
“Unless you would prefer I left you alone, I am coming. Would you?”
“Would I what, Owen?”
“Prefer I left you alone?” He held the candles at their side, glowing over half of their faces and casting the other half in shadow. His eyes roamed her face, dipping to her throat before drawing back up again.
“No,” she croaked, her mouth growing dry as sand. “Of course not. This is not my home any longer. I would not wish to be caught lurking in the dark by anyone else.”
“You speak as though anyone would be concerned to find you here.”
Was he going to pretend his mother had not directly asked her to avoid coming to Buckley Place? “It would certainly be odd.”
He lifted one shoulder. “It hardly matters. No one will find you now, for everyone is asleep.”
“Including your parents? I cannot imagine what grief they would endure to stumble upon a scene such as this.”
“Grief? Or would they rejoice that I finally appear interested in women again?”
Emma had no ready reply. “You know as well as I that I am not the sort of female they have in mind for you.”
Owen’s gray eyes hardened, turning to stone. “Are you not certain Aunt Clara sent you here with the express purpose to throw us together?”
His words startled a laugh from her chest. “The women she would like to throw you together with are still in their prime, Owen.” Emma began to move around him. “Shall we find where Mrs. Rooney keeps the tea things? I believe I know. The tea box will be locked, but with any luck, the rest—”
“Emma.”
She stopped walking in the corridor, her shoulders tensing, and inhaled slowly. “Yes?”
“Do you mean to imply you are not in your prime?”
Emma watched Owen approach her, his expression incredulous. She had not been seeking compliments, so she kept her mouth closed. She would prefer the ground opened and swallowed her whole.
“Do not tell me you consider yourself on the shelf,” he said.
“It is not a matter of opinion,” she muttered.
He scoffed. “A more ridiculous thing I’ve not heard in an age.”
“I highly doubt that to be true.”
His brows shot up in challenge. “You have a suitor. Multiple, if I am not mistaken. Women on the shelf do not have gentlemen seeking them for a wife.”
Her lungs sought air. His steady approach and consistent eye contact were nearly predator-like. Together, they ignited all manner of fantasies he had no business placing in her mind. “What do you mean?”
“Mr. Lofton, for one. If it is not plain to you, it is certainly clear to me the man is taken with you. He wanted to give you a dressing table.”
Her cheeks flushed hot.
“You did the proper thing, I will admit—”
“He sent it over anyway.”
Owen seemed to go as still as a stone statue. His arm holding the candelabra was stiff, the flames casting light on them and making their shadows dance on the wall. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady. “I feel you need to explain further. He came to see you and offered the table again?”
“No. He visited Mrs. Buckley and gifted her the dressing table. She had no use or room for it in her chamber, so she directed the servants to put it in mine.” Emma swallowed. “It was meant to be a surprise.”
“A great shock, no doubt.” Owen rubbed a hand over his jaw.
The stubble that had grown in over the course of the day cast a rough shadow, and she could hear the scratch it made against his palm.
She longed to feel it herself. “I will see it returned if it bothers you. Only a quick word with my aunt would accomplish it.”
“She is aware of how I feel. If it is not Mr. Lofton’s place to provide me with furniture, Owen, do you think I would accept your assistance in returning it?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw as he leaned over her, biting back the words he seemed to want to say. “It is none of my concern.”
He agreed far too easily. It was deflating.
“And yet,” Owen said, reaching to set the candelabra down on the small table against the wall, “I want to make it my concern.”
Emma drew in a sharp breath. “You are speaking in riddles.”
“I think I am speaking rather plainly.” Owen took a breath, swaying closer. “In fact, presumptuous as I am, it has been my hope you are not as immune to me as you appear.”
She searched his gray eyes and let the truth slip from her lips. “I am not.”