Prologue #2
As second son, Chris had been forced to forge his own path, declining to join the church as so many had urged him to do.
Though the living was respectable, he had no notion of being a landlubber and snubbing the souls of the men who’d volunteered to defend Britannia.
Besides, he was much too daring for the pulpit.
The sea . . . Ah, it lured him into trouble like the serpent that had goaded Eve.
And like the mother of all humanity, he’d made a choice.
He’d nibbled what was offered, taking it upon himself to honor his father, the king, and England, by taking up arms against Napoleon.
The salvation of souls he’d leave in the local vicar, Mr. Havisham’s capable hands.
If only I had more time. Perhaps then, after the banns had been read and Havisham espoused them on a bright sunny morning, he’d be less likely to sail away consumed by gloom.
There would never be a more perfect moment to open his heart than now.
A tremendous weight lifted off his shoulders, unburdening his heart.
Opening up, revealing his emotions, had never been an easy feat.
Perhaps if he could escort her to a quiet place without anyone suspecting foul play .
. . Rounding two women engaged in gossip, he brought himself up sharply as he discovered why Emma was laughing.
Her good humor was aimed at his nemesis, Geoffrey, Baron of Lyddon.
Bollocks! The man was hedonistic, a troll, a pompous arse. If Lyddon and Emma came to an understanding— She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. That foppish dandy selfishly loved one thing and one thing only: control.
He'll taste my wrath first!
Emboldened, he charged forward to Emma’s rescue. Lyddon could trap any other fish in his cunning net but not Emma. Not the love of his life.
“Lieutenant Astley-Milne,” Emma’s sweet voice formally greeted him upon his arrival. She turned to the baron. “Lord Lyddon, you are acquainted with the viscount’s son, are you not?”
“Yes.” The roguish dandy shot Chris a vexing glower.
The two of them were not on good terms. Had not been since Lyddon had been caught trying to swindle one of Milne Manor’s tenants.
“How soon do you sail? . . Figgy?” Lyddon asked, brow cocked and a steady smirk deepening the dimple in his debonair cheek.
“Tomorrow,” Chris said, fully understanding Lyddon’s purpose.
He grinned back at the artful cheat and silently cursed the man for not knowing him at all.
Figgy was a shortened nickname for Figgy Pudding, the sweet and savory treat that failed to be as rich or complex as the favored indulgence, Plum Pudding.
Lyddon was insulting him. Long ago, Chris had been heavier.
Figgy was an obvious nod to his appetite and the jolly names his mother had bestowed upon him and Noel when they were born.
Chris shot the man a look that said, Bugger off!
Lyddon visibly winced, the swine. “Well then,” he said, twirling his looking glass between his fingers. The perceptive man sneered as if to say, I’ll bide my time and when you’re gone—
“Have you received orders?” Emma asked Chris sullenly.
“I must beg your leave.” the baron said smartly, turning to Emma and slowly appraising her. “I see my aunt requires my attention. I must away. But do not forget we’re to dance the last set, Miss Clavering.”
“The last set?” Emma’s voice audibly cracked.
The expression on her face when she looked at her dance card said she knew nothing about this.
Rebutting the baron was unthinkable, however, unless she could prove otherwise.
She dropped her hand and looked up. “Of course,” she added, exhibiting charity and propriety. “I shall look forward to it.”
“Until then.” Lyddon had the presence of mind to retreat in false victory before Chris’s anger could be revoked. “I bid you adieu, for now.”
Chris felt obliged to manage Lyddon. He set out to follow him, but Emma laid her hand on his arm. “Stay,” she whispered. “He is of no consequence.”
“When have you ever fallen into a man’s trap?” he snapped more abruptly than he intended.
“Lyddon’s veneer is paper thin.” She harumphed, her stare accusing him of not knowing her at all. “I see through him. Which begs me to ask, why does he insist on annoying you at every opportunity?”
He went still. Growing more restless as he gazed into her beautiful blue eyes incredulously. “You do not know?”
“Know what?” She shook her head and bit her lip, plumping the delicate tissue in a tempting fashion. “I am at sixes and sevens.”
He searched her soul. Her face seemed to brighten under his inspection, the corners of her lips drawing into a bow. Minx. She knew exactly why Lyddon hated him. The man had launched an assault on her senses out of jealousy for that which he did not have.
And so am I. I’m eager to kiss your charming mouth. I yearn to feel you quiver in my arms as you—
Did she sense his desire? Couldn’t she see that he only had eyes for her? He made a mental note to alleviate any doubt she possessed before the night was over. “Lyddon’s an odd sort of goat. Nothing in his path is safe.” He tweaked her nose. “Remember, the grass is not always—”
“Greener?” Emma blinked, her heavy lashes fluttering against her high cheekbones. “Are you referring to Milne Manor or me?”
She knew him far better than he knew himself. “You.”
“Ah!” She looked away swiftly, pretending to smile at something someone said. “I knew he was a toad, but I never expected—”
“He is not the only man smitten with you.” Her smile quickly vanished. Chris reached out, barely touching the tips of her fingers before withdrawing his hand, bursting with pleasure at the contact with her glove.
She offered a wry smile and stared up at him. “He isn’t?”
“Do you not know that you are the prettiest lady in attendance?” he asked without shame.
“I am not a lady,” she insisted.
“No?” He offered a lopsided grin. “And yet, people cannot help but be drawn to your goodness and strength.”
“People?” she asked, her voice sultry and smooth.
“Particularly me.” He drew in a slow and steady breath.
“Emma.” He swallowed thickly, searching for the appropriate forte the situation called for.
“The truth is, I would like to declare myself to you, body and soul.” Her smile, as intimate as a kiss, widened, and then it was gone, reminding him of the first time he’d fed her a strawberry, that intimate moment stoking his ardor and pulling him to her like a light from a distant shore.
“Would like to?” she asked.
He cocked his brow. “I am to leave at once.”
“This very night?” She clasped his hand.
He glanced around them, hoping no one had overheard their conversation. “For the first time in my life, I find it hard to say that I am off to war and whatever Fate has in store.”
“No!” She squeezed his hand harder. “You’ve only been home for four days.”
“Aye,” he said. “And now, I find myself full of regret, questioning why I have not revealed myself to you sooner. I cannot leave without—”
She led him to the hearth, where the yule triumphed in exceptional splendor. “Ask.” Amusement flickered in her eyes.
“I have struggled in vain, desiring to keep your friendship and fearful of longing for more.” He rushed on before he lost his nerve. “Emma. It would give me the greatest honor if you consented to be my bride. Permit me to depart with an understanding and a hope for our future in my heart.”
Her face appeared to illuminate from within. She glanced over his shoulder, then fixed her eyes on his face. “Ask.”
“I have little to offer. You know the truth of this. I must make my own way. I joined the navy in the hope of securing prize money. Nevertheless, no matter what it takes, if you agree to marry me, I will spend every day proving myself worthy of you and your love.” He caressed her face with the back of his hand, despising the burden he handed to her.
“Allow me to sail away, knowing that you will be waiting for me when I return.”
“Ask,” she whispered with a smile.
“Emma Clavering, will you marry me, no matter how long it takes? Will you take my oath, my troth, and wait for my return?” She nodded, giving him the will to say the words branded in his brain. “Will you take my hand?”
She looked down. “I have your hand, Christmas.” Her laughter ignited another spark, bringing his dry bones to life.
“Then . . . will you be my wife?”
“Yes,” she responded happily. “I would be honored to marry you.”
His heart took a perilous leap. He didn’t have much to offer.
Not yet. But his mother had provided him with a ring, something Emma could remember him by.
He reached into his coat, retrieved the bauble, then reached for Emma’s hand.
“I do not have much. But love and loyalty aplenty, I do have.” He removed her glove ever so slowly, the act nearly driving him insane, then placed the sapphire ring on her finger.
“Will you promise to wear this until I return?”
She glanced at the jewel. “But this is your mother’s ring.”
“Yes.” Her apprehension to take something of his mother’s only magnified the love he bore her. “My mother gave it to me with her blessing.”
“And you have given it to me,” she said breathlessly, as if only now comprehending that fact.
She raised her hand to the light, turning her fingers to and fro.
The sapphire glinted magically in the candlelight.
“If you change your mind,” she said haughtily, “you shall have to pry it off my dead finger.”
He groaned inwardly, knowing his love for her was constant and pure. “Never!”
Aye, they would suit each other well. They would wed when he returned.
Until then, he vowed to remember this moment in its entirety—Emma.
Her touch; her beautiful eyes; the gilded décor, joyous voices, and harmonious violin strings; the dancers, revelry, and the pleased look in his mother’s eyes as she watched them from across the room.
His gaze dropped from Emma’s face to her shoulders and breasts, where delicate lace and embroidered indigo flowers complimented her skin.
Emma Clavering was a breathtaking young woman, proud and untamed, strong and compassionate, committed and courageous. She excelled in all the female graces: elegance, beauty, and poise. But it was her adventurous spirit he craved to know. And he vowed he would.
She’d promised to wait for him.
A man couldn’t ask for anything more, could he?